Larksong Grotto Ankärr

Fortuity muted one’s words to the other.  Ayovi wouldn’t have believed him, anyway.

…

Morning had come and gone, it was afternoon when the huntress awoke, light-headed, but at ease. Finally her paws scabbed over, no longer would she be moving on tenderness. They feel strange and rough but there is no pain. With relief she watches the soft noon on the wings of sparrows who dwelt here, fluttering between bare trees, and stretches out her legs. There is nothing to eat, but she ferries down to the brook, rinsing in the chill before returning to the fortified tree under which she’d left the northman last night.
He was there, stirring, copper-hewn eyes watching from the dark mask. Ayovi is nervous again. She remembers in a rush the things that she’d said; what he’d done. But he appears languorous still and she chances a few steps forward to examine the cuts. They were healing nicely. The flesh is calm. She nods her head and leans back, lowering into a gentle seat.
“Good.” The blue eyes attempt to express affirmation with their openness. It was not so much the warrior then that unnerved her, but the tingling within her at the man’s nearness. Soon her skin would grow too warm, and she feared she would no longer be able to think.
“Have you seen kootsin on your travels? Great horned-creatures? Um— big…hairy.” Her paw stamps the snow, drawing a circular mark. With a claw she indicates a pair of curled tusks.
It looks like… nothing.
Still, her eyes meet his, searching for any evidence of discernment in the void of his mask.

the drawing in question