Dawnlark Plains you're a poem of mystery,

and there was an understanding that shone from her very core, now. faust, she echoed, as if it were faint and fleeting on the winds, although it stood tall, like an obelisk, like the dark-man stood now. he had called her 'star girl', and so she would return to him a name of her own: you ... taaqtuq angut, a name that whispered of strength.

in her lands, distant and weeks-worth of travel north, the mountains and their summits had been claimed for generations by crowfeather-wolves. known for their dark pelts and their affiliation with the carrion-eaters that they were named for. something about this man, then, vaguely reminded her of them. of the man she once was to wed. winter is a cruel teacher, she would say - a learnt notion. one that had to be experienced.

you speak like ataata, like chief, and rala found herself smiling, though not towards him - instead, at a distant memory, one that was filled with light, with laughter. the summer months had been kind one year. no longer. but with room for dry humour, she would speak again: it is partly ... intimidating, dawn-hues searching his. golden.

you seek to build something bigger, do you not? he seemed to have ambitions.