Deepwood Weald arctocephalus

He said that word again, the one she didn't know, and now she had begun to link it with herself; but she had heard it wrong initially—the meaning of what a banshee was completely lost upon her even so; she was a far cry from that sort of creature. The way the man Dutch said this word was endearing, like how ice mother called Sulukinak's name sometimes.

Dutch pledged to do his rituals, and there was hope this would lead Agakiggruk and Tuvittugak home to her. A kindness, one she did not expect from a man; but she was glad for it, and welcoming to a degree. It appeared to her that adults were all some form of mystic. Her mother had been two-spirit and anatkuk. Here in the aetherwood, Dutch was something similar.

She was thoughtful about this. Her quiet voice having evaporated now, but her mouth softening, and her eyes looking kindly upon the man instead of at his feet or the dirty snow of their path. Her head gives a little nod. I hope the spirits listen.

If she was sad, or hopeful, or worried, no such weakness betrayed her. Are there many voices here? That word—mortal. That is... a not-spirit? She wanted to learn, always. Learning kept you alive; it kept you useful. And here in this place where Dutch was taking her, she hoped she would keep being useful to stave off the possibility of another tunillalik.

She did not want to run again.