Duskfire Glacier [m] Tshärr

His maw strokes her gently, as though smoothing the finest pelt, and the billow between her legs shifts impulsively. When he pulls from her to step back the dark face is glittering amusement that freezes every rebuttal where they wait on her tongue. Somehow what he has to say sounds wisely pragmatic, but now her cheek is raw and cold with his absence.
“Fine, quēogånd-man,” she grunts.
Dear father, do not hate me.
Ayovi turns and races, a nimble northwards sprint to partner with the bear. 
They tread out along the glacial blue, a gleaming shelf still powdered by a lack of hoof and paw; no grass, no trees, no place to hide away prey. Eyes trace beyond to a granite mount and wooded foothills before flicking along Skorpa.
She can smell him. He is everywhere; in her hair, her mouth, the soles of her feet. Even here, in the flat white, his decay still finds her. Her stomach turns a moment and she slides an arm down her muzzle, the solid stroke steadying her. She needs to get away from his smell—
Because all she can think about are flashes from last night and the images of him she’d been hoarding.
“Don’t you ever bathe?” Ayovi makes a flaring gesture with her nostrils.