Moonsong Glacier Sing a song of sixpence

And he did, sitting close enough that he could see her work. His peltsmith was a busy one; pelts lined her den and softened the thumping of her tail. 

His eyes burned with curiosity, such sights were new to him. 

A tilt of his head, a sniff in the pelt she worked on.

Where'd we even find a raccoon?