Herbalists' Cache wooden doll

star eater smiles softly, the glow of it faint beneath the weight of winter and her swelling sides. a different kind of blood, she agrees, voice low and dreamy. blood that gives life, instead of taking. her eyes drift toward the sky, to the frostbitten clouds that swirled above the glacier’s rim. have you ever seen such a sight? her tone is thoughtful, as if the idea itself is sacred. the first cries of your children? the way they come into this world... fighting, gasping, alive. she breathes in deeply, the cold air sharp in her chest. it is no easy thing.
her eyes fall to him again, softened by something tender. you may stay away. but know you will be the first i call for.
when he speaks of names, a smile curls again at her lips, a touch more playful. then tell me some, she murmurs, tilting her head. if we have girls. what names shall they carry?
she leans into his touch, the rumble of his approval warming her from the inside out. she feels the restraint in him—the pull, the ache, the distance his customs force upon him now. it makes her want to tease, to pull him closer still, but instead she lets her nose brush along the line of his jaw. make them strong names, she adds, quieter, as if sharing a secret. names the caribou will hear and know who chase them.