Nova Peak Wēkenben

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by incredible contrast, skorpa of the white jaw had slept far easier these several nights than in all his life. he has slumbered in the mud of battle camps and spent days awake on raiding schedule. a roof, a meal, a bearskin, and ayovi — it was almost completely satisfying for the northman.

while ayovi found the putrescence of their dwelling untenable, skorpa dug a cache nearby. only thin streams crossed the ridge overhead, and the trees clumped together in tinier copses. it was not impossible, but lacked the sort of luxury he had envisioned.

to tell the truth, he was not one to understand the layout of a more permanent camp, yet would never admit such a disadvantage. and with the obstacle of language still between them, it could not be said at all.

he searched for the thickening neck of a river, rimed in ice and splendorous in a cold mist which clung to the hairs of his bearpelt. hunting along its bank, skorpa discovered a beaver's-dam which forced the waterway to take two paths.

jubilant, skorpa listened to the cardinals singing for one another, his steps taking him in amble along the more slender of those riverlimbs. it was here that ayovi's voice rose, strung with some emotion. his eyes narrowed in assessment. not fear nor worry tinged her call, but the northman was swift for her all the same

river became a blue stream, and not far from its sound was his mate. skorpa grew warm on approach, unable to hide his deep joy in simply looking at her. swathed in the fragrance of several herbs, her attention at last directed his own. "vil du også have den her?" he asked, confused, marveling. not comprehending. however, he would dig a cache at every cave she desired, happily even. perhaps she wanted this one for her herbs.

he lifted a bundle and set it down inside the root-space, looking toward ayovi for approval.

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