Wapun Meadow morningsong

suliya listened intently, her gaze steady and unblinking as he spoke of rhythm and destiny. her head tilted slightly, the grey  light of her eyes flickering with interest rather than judgment. the mention of hymns and feasts resonated with her deeply; the seasons guided the lanzadoii in their migrations, the changing world dictating their movements like an ancient dance. it was not so different from what he described.

purpose, she murmured, her voice low and measured, careful not to disturb the herd nearby. the seasons are sacred. they command us, too. their turning decides where we go, how we live. it’s not unlike your rhythm.

her gaze sharpened, brow raising slightly as curiosity overcame her. she wiggled closer, her voice still soft but with a pointed edge of inquiry. but you... you have no scent marker on you. why is that? do you wander without pack?

there was no accusation in her tone, only an earnest desire to understand the man before her, his place in this rhythm he spoke of so fondly.