Duskfire Glacier jimmy, you should switch it up

he watches her, this woman of faith and purpose, and finds himself—against all reason—fascinated.
lousine knows a lot. more than he does about these things, certainly. she moves with intention, with knowledge passed through bloodlines and prayers, through time and ritual. it is a strange thing to witness, this careful, deliberate gathering, as if each piece is part of something grander than he can see.
his steps are heavy behind her, marking his presence in contrast to her lightness. when she speaks of fireweed, he only hums, a low, rumbling acknowledgment. he doesn’t argue its use. it is not his place.
but when she mentions gods, he chuffs, shaking his head as if to dispel the notion like snow off his coat.
if they’re real, they’ve done little for me, he mutters, glancing down at the bundle she’s gathered, the sticks, the stones, the pieces of whatever she is creating.
but he does not stop her. does not mock her. he simply follows, despite himself, despite the disbelief. because if nothing else, he likes to watch her when she is happy.