Dawnlark Plains Nɨ paa nɨ’a

Dusky blooms bob on their stems in the last of winter’s fleecy breath. Ayovi seizes a mouthful, ripping them by the roots. She tears at the petals. Breaks the stems into pieces. Damp shreds of green sticks to her lips, red sap bleeds across her fur. The scent rises raw and wild, reeky as old smoke. She tears another mouthful and works the strands into a leather pack by her feet. In her ears is the impending whir of war, dark and humming like an angry hive.
When comes the loner wolf-scent Ayovi raises her head and watches the distant figure descend on an old kill. For the passing of several breaths she does not move, only chews at her harvest of fireweed, what would later be used for wound-healing when the time came. Then she draws the crude leather pouch upon her shoulders and gains to her feet, high tail over her spine signaling a warning. The lithe creature reminds her too much of her own flesh and blood to bear teeth. Ayovi’s approach is firm, but not unkind. She sees the face soft still with youth and stops short of the kill.
“You are on dangerous ground,” the huntress speaks bluntly. “The North is soon at war. I suggest you move into the south.”