Dawnlark Plains you're a poem of mystery,

the hare dangled limp in faust's maw, its warmth seeping through its fur to his teeth. it had been an easy kill, one of many he’d snared in recent days for ayovi. a fat wife was a happy wife—or so he convinced himself as he made his way back toward the makeshift den.

but then, a whisper of scent curled through the crisp air, foreign and enticing. it carried with it the musk of winter and something distinctly feminine. he halted mid-step, ears swiveling toward the distant melody that followed. a voice—soft, rhythmic, with a cadence that stirred something restless in him.

faust lowered the hare to the snow, nostrils flaring as he tested the breeze. it wasn’t ayovi’s scent. no, this one was unfamiliar, laced with the peculiar allure of the unknown. he moved toward it instinctively, broad paws crunching through the snow, his head lifting to scan the expanse.

and then, he saw her.

she was small, but there was nothing fragile in her movements. her paws wove a rhythm with her song, sinking deep into the snow but never faltering. her pale coat blended with the frosted landscape, her dark nose cutting a sharp contrast. faust stopped a short distance away, his emerald gaze narrowing as he tried to make sense of the words spilling effortlessly from her tongue.

it wasn’t a language he understood, but there was a familiarity in its music. similar, yet strange. a shared root, perhaps, branching off into a dialect he couldn’t decipher. still, the intent in her voice—soft and persistent—needed no translation.

he let out a low chuff, testing her attention, his chest rumbling with the deep timbre of his voice: who you?

the words left him in athabaskan, a tongue she might grasp if luck favored them both. his gaze lingered on her, assessing, guarded but curious, the hare forgotten behind him in the snow.