Dawnlark Plains tender like a dove

she did not answer at first, only watched him with the wariness of a creature that had been hunted more than it had been held.
but he did not snap or posture. he asked.
so she pointed, gently, to her chest with the edge of her paw.
silatuyok, she said, the syllables thick with accent, snow-dipped and wind-worn. her voice was gravel-soft, shaped by silence more than speech.
then she tilted her head, the fur along her neck rustling as she motioned toward him next.
err... you? a pause. brow furrowing. da’?
she did not know if the word meant the same here—“name,” “soul,” “how are you called?”—but it was the closest she could reach, and so she reached.
she waited then, still as snow on stone, but her yellow eyes were bright with curiosity.