Nova Peak Yēodze

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each time she spoke in northern tongue, something lapsed inside skorpa, some ivy-clad wall crumbling to graceful stone. he stared in rapture at the shapes which formed beneath her artistic hands, admiring ayovi anew for her ability to create.

such an ability was not only preserved in ochre.

each time his mate said his name, skorpa's ears swept in sharp attention, and he had begun to identify the finer nuances between each way she uttered it.

for him, ayovi drew the words as she said them, and beside her the northman grew tense with surprise. he did not know why! why should he be surprised? and yet he was; skorpa, she asked, and  he translated the one word most similiar; "fuld." full.

filled. "gravid." pregnant. he was sinking down now in wonder, down until his drying crown was nestled below her breastbone, against the taut flatness of her belly.

there he rested his touch, warm. emotion trembled his breath. the great mystery of women was so near to him, and ayovi thrummed with a primal glow. "jeg vil bede til Frigg om, at vores børn er sunde og raske."

when skorpa could etch it, in ochre: the rune fehu over the tiny quartet of claw-dots made by ayovi.

but not now; for now he only held her. held them.

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