Dawnlark Plains From the scars on my arms

i would be suliaq to bite, a dry smile took place upon her features as she carefully ebbed closer, coming forwards like a gentle wave. my younger sister, tiriqaniaq, she is healer - taught by our anaanatsiaq, nuvuja, mother of our mother, her voice was a melodic, distracting explanation as she carefully worked snow into the wound. words intended to draw in the attention of that in which she tended to, rather than the sting of the injury. snow would slowly calm it, but the first touches of winters blanket would be cold ; unpleasant. patience was important, now. perhaps more than ever.

she continued speaking, now, as if her words were a song, a ballad of sorts, recalling a story: i, too, was intended to be healer, but i was then deemed forthbringer by my father, by his father. i was to be married off to bird-hunter - an alliance between tribes, paws gently massaged the wound, pushing the snow into it with a learnt precision, a taught ease. her expression was careful, watching herself work, but a faint smile was plastered upon her maw nonetheless, as if she had shifted to calm the demeanor of her patient. but i did not find him worthy of my children.

moving away, she surveyed her work. and now i am here. how does it feel?