Qeya River fables

star eater’s eyes softened at the girl’s questions, though there was always something guarded behind them. her home? beautiful? she thought of the windswept crags, the stone halls, the bloodline that had ruled with steel and fire. it had been beautiful once—because it was hers. because it was all she knew.
it was, she said simply, voice low, almost wistful. once.
but her gaze shifted, turning sharper as other shore spoke of her children. instinctively, her tail curled tighter around her belly, the gentle swell of life growing within.
qeya river is our home for now, she explained. but when they are strong enough to walk, we will go. the caribou move with the seasons. we follow.
there was no choice. her children would march with them, as all saatsine children did. their legs would ache, their lungs would burn—but they would endure. it was the way of their people. it had always been the way.
my pups will learn to walk the long march. they will learn to hunt and survive. and they will be stronger for it.
her tone was firm, resolute—but her eyes lingered on other shore, curious now.
have you known such a march? she asked, though she thought she knew the answer. other shore was delicate in comparison—like a sapling bending in the breeze. yet, here she was. still standing. perhaps there was more to her than star eater had first thought.