Nova Peak Yēodze

Love is stupefying.
At least, that is how the woman of Nova feels when she goes about her day and finds herself smiling at nothing at all in particular. There are always immaterial times when she thinks of @Skorpa; like when she’s down in the valley harvesting herbs and reliving in imaginative detail their evenings from the night before.
Quite possibly, she is a crazed creature.
On other days, she’s able to summon her wits. The project of most import is their winter home. By now, Ayovi has developed a sort of concentrated slave to soften the years of blood, scat, and other foul things from the interior of their den. She smothers the solution with her paws and watches as the cave’s history is revealed in delicate detail. Strata planes of various color leap to life and Ayovi imagines that each one is a year upon the mountain. Changes in weather and inhabitants write the very lore of their home upon granitic walls. So greatly do their colors and patterns vary.
When as far as she can reach is scoured and chipped and swabbed of grime, the floors must again be cleansed. This time stalks of wildmint roll beneath her paws and other herbs are bunched into small alcoves along the ceiling to release fresh scents. Her work is pristine. If the hunters of Ashēer had given her anything, it was endurance.
But now this sanctity is threatened by her husband; the northman with a permanently soiled coat and bloodied grin. The evening turns dove into raptor and there she posts beneath the threshold of their home, blocking entry to the man in tarnished pelts. The sight of him ignites craving, but the smell speaks of something else entirely.
“No,” Ayovi enforces with teeth, “I have not spent four days entire cleaning this place for you to waltz in and destroy it with your fifth. Bathe. You are barred entry until you do so.”
The indigo eyes glint. She plants herself at their foyer and hikes high a demure muzzle.