Nova Peak Yēodze

A part of him relents, and yes, there is a certain smugness that overcomes the curve of Ayovi’s lips by result. But she is far more amazed they’d both forfeited their ideal in favor of common ground, upon which each would please the other. This, she thinks, must be a paradigm of love. These little settlements.
The huntress does not follow her husband to the creek. Rather, she turns about the den, by again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation and imagining what Skorpa might think. Will he treasure all the little unclothed details she so coveted?  The flecks of mica that glitter like gold when caught by the moon’s light? Or the bedrock striations that form an intricate tapestry under foot?
Even if he does not so much care for the minute, Ayovi is certain his interest will pique in the gathering of ochre pigment she’d prepared wallside; a ground red substance made slick and bright with water.
Grinning, the huntress drags Skropa’s prize into the den, then dabs her wrists in sweet-smelling ointment. When the hunter returns, she thinks she will again make a scene— if only to earn more placating touches.
Instead, she steps aside for the man to cross the threshold to his claim, eyes watching; waiting.