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

silatuyuok watched the brown woman wretch with a flick of her tongue, nostrils flaring as the sharp scent of bile cut through the morning frost. she had not crept close with ill intent—only instinct. the smell of sickness stirred something old in her. something animal.
her body moved before thought did—gangly limbs striding fast across the snow, tail tucked low as her head swept close to the other’s flank, sniffing with frantic, fluttering breaths. no blood. no open wounds. her teeth did not chatter with fever. siamiituuq circled her once, a loose spiral, ears pressed flat in puzzlement.
then her muzzle dipped to the churned-up dirt and bile, nostrils twitching. a low, throaty hum left her chest.
eh— she croaked suddenly, voice thick, unused, scraping the back of her throat. she made a face and spat once in the snow, frustrated, before trying again.
eh... shki? sick?
the word sick came like breath through her teeth, sharp and broken in her dialect—a shard of Kītsanē, the sacred tongue warped by urgency.
she did not wait for answer. instead, she gently nosed at the woman’s side again, searching—pressing her snout briefly to her belly, her throat, her face. soft little whines crept from her throat like moths stirred from old bark.
not blood. not wound. not heat.
then she stilled.
tilted her head.
ears forward.
pregnant?
her eyes flicked up, wide and owlish. breath ghosted in the cold. and then—
a low chuff, softer now.
offering. asking. worried.