Herbalists' Cache hoof trundle

the den was quiet.
new, but familiar. the earth still held the scent of those who had made it before her—layers of lives long passed, now covered by the musk of saatsine. her scent, sun eater’s scent. the faint, warm trace of their unborn children.
star eater lay curled within, the curve of her belly brushing against the cool dirt as her teeth worked carefully through the caribou hide draped over her paws.
she smoothed the fur, plucked the knots from its edges, and pressed it close to her face to inhale the wild scent of the hunt. it was a ritual. a way to steady herself after the long march.
the world beyond the den was still shifting. new paths, new resting grounds. she knew this was their way—follow the herd, let the seasons guide them—but still, the ache of travel lingered in her joints.
her eyes flicked to the entrance, watching the faint play of light across the snow.