Dawnlark Plains η

Ayovi acknowledges Skorpa’s call with a straightening poise, indigo gaze brushing each individual as they come into the clearing. She’d dressed in the isabelline caribou as her husband did his bear, though nothing can temper the wild in her mate. Seeing the sun chieftain’s flagrant stare she presses a kiss to Skorpa’s jaw. To Ayovi, he makes their wintry hummock look like a throne. He does not gleam, he is not polished nor tidily arranged. But he is the same all the way through, without the need for a second face to hide behind; a monolith cut from a quarry, and likely the only one here who was.
“Saatsine: rensdyrjægere,” she whispers for his ear, indicating to Sun Eater and the two women at his flank, both striking images of silver and gray-blue eyes. One is heavily pregnant, and though Ayovi has yet to swell she feels an instinctual kinship with the woman. Her face softens.
In winter silence more wolves emerge, each moving within their own judgements and stratagems. She considers the fine glass tempers of men, the sulks of brittle egos; how each warrior would inevitably balance themself against their fellow. Ayovi too maps, surveys, noting tails and ears with clear-eyed precision and suspects it will be a great feat if they can manage to negotiate a domestic harmony.
When Tuhin appears she greets him with a gentle nod and shifts the fur over her shoulders. What remains uncloaked of an alpine ridge is taken by the wind.
She knows Faust is close now. Ayovi is nervous to see him again.