Larksong Grotto Ankärr

Leaning closer, she is enthralled by the mark-making, and still so acutely aware that these same claws had throttled her with just as much ease the day prior.
Vildoske. She glances at the northman. It’s a painful realization she should have made much sooner. “No… vildoske here.”
The huntress sighs, breath caught and held in smoke by the immortal air. Without kootsin, she lacked a course. Without kootsin, she did not know how to live.
No more than two or three feet away, her eyes fall absently to the wild man. His skin is still drawn and dirty, the owlish eyes peer aflame from the shadow-veil. Lips conceal those horribly stained fangs and she’d seen him flog Faust when he could have avoided violence. Now he was keen on acting civilly. Ayovi’s clear eyes dart to his thighs, where she sees her claw-tracks left on his skin. Quickly she looks away, down at the drawing.
“That’s home.” A scabbed paw traces his portrayal gently, running her claws up over the blades of grass.
“That’s Big Sky.”