Dawnlark Plains please don't dress in black when you're at his wake

What eddies of dreamthought lingered inside of her, evaporating as the hot bile sank in to soil, left behind only the twisted feeling in her gut. That something was wrong, maybe; not strong enough to bring true fear, but a bitterness that festers.

A pale figure lingers in her periphery. At first she does not see, because she is distracted by this physical strangeness spoiling in her gut, but she notices eventually, affixing her stare upon the stranger woman on cue with their chuff.

This is not a woman she knows. They do not look the part of a caribou hunter, nor do they carry the scent of her uncle; maybe Darukaal? No, nothing there, either. The unease does not lift from her—but Sulukinak turns again to the dirt and retches.