The Wall Toome

The Wide Fang seems troubled by the accusations. Why should he care? Unless he wanted to keep Ayovi. Claim her, as was their custom. He stares at her and over the snow their eyes lock. He is wolf, she knows that. But there is something threatening in the green-leaf stare. The dove looks on, more broadly. He is covered in imperfections. A faded mark spreads over one cheek, matching the hashed lines she sees on his forearms. His face is too angular. Nose cut too sharp. None of the soft roundness that defines those born in Big Sky.
She swallows at the blood coagulating in her throat and refuses an answer at first. She owes him only half their kill, but something hot writhes in the chest.
“You,” Ayovi accuses, “raiders. Take the kootsinpooäh. Leave your men.” She scoffs and against the bark, leans her head, keeping an eye on Faust and another out for bears, uncertain of which repels her more.