Larksong Grotto Ankärr

He comes alive in rough staggerings that thrusts levins of ice through her heart. The huntress rips away, setting a broad space between them in which he could not breach. She feels the stirrings of fear but reaches for anger instead. Survival eclipses what yielding she was taught to present to this man. He sways like a kootsin just before the mortal bite and revulsion mauls her nose. From safe distances, Ayovi eyes the haggard face, made almost unnatural by new wounds. A laceration in the belly nearly glows green.
“Your stench will bring all wildlife down upon us. You must bathe yourself,” she asserts quietly.
Would he understand her? Thus far there was no talk shared but the workings of their bodies. Her shoulders quiver with a new fine edge. Ayovi is grimly aware that her scent, too, will soon call the wilds.