Herbalists' Cache dewclaw mountain

star eater’s gaze drifts over the ring they’ve built, the dewclaws catching the faintest glint of weak sunlight, and for a moment she allows herself to feel wholly pleased. it is good work. work she couldn’t have done alone. other shore’s presence beside her has become as natural as the snow beneath their paws, and star eater smiles softly at the thought. they did make a fine pair.
you will be there, she assures her gently, not just as witness, but as part of it. there is warmth in the promise, an unspoken gratitude layered beneath. i would like that. it is rare she shares such things—rarer still to allow others into her sacred spaces—but other shore had earned her place, quietly and without asking.
at the question of names, star eater hums, shifting her weight as she presses a forepaw lightly against the packed snow. her belly stirs, a faint reminder of the little lives she carries, and her gaze lowers fondly toward it. we will know them when they come, she says, voice like low wind brushing over the ice. sun eater will name them beneath the sky. that is our way. they must be seen first. heard. felt. only then will their names find us.
she looks to other shore again, a glint of amusement in her eye. but i trust he will choose well. and if not... i’ll be sure to correct him. a soft, teasing laugh slips free, as though the thought of disagreeing with her husband over their children’s names is something simple and sweet. something mundane.
and perhaps it is.