Herbalists' Cache dewclaw mountain

the morning is brittle and sharp, the kind that bites at her nose and steals breath straight from the lungs. frost clings to the edges of the snow shelter, and somewhere beyond, the slow churn of the saatsine waking can be heard—soft murmurs, the scrape of paws, the snuffle of breath through the cold.
star eater sits just outside the entrance to her den, the swell of her belly growing heavier by the day. dawn streaks faint pink across the sky as she arranges a scattering of caribou bones in idle patterns, but her mind is elsewhere.
she tips her head back, voice cutting smooth and clear through the stillness.
it is @Other Shore she calls, summoning the girl to her side.
there is no sharpness to her tone. no impatience. only the expectation that she will come—because when star eater calls, they listen.