Nova Peak ε

“Hjem,” rolls the unversed tongue. She thinks she will weep and wants to press Skorpa with joyful words, but language stands between them. Instead Ayovi nuzzles the bottom of his jaw, arms curving over his shoulders like wings while her eyes fill with all the work that must be done to make the stone haven a suitable den.
But she likes the respite of the domed walls, the cavern mouth that allows for slivers of gentle light through relentless snowfall and contemplates their venturous undertaking.
The huntress drops an arm to trail a claw in the earthen bedrock. She etches a primitive ridge-shape— their peak— and pierces the dirt thrice to indicate light from stars.
“Nova mountain,” Ayovi names, looking into the man’s dark mask.  “How do you say it in north-tongue?”