Emberflame Ridge Attawkǒnts

He is not an Ashēeran husband to keep her within the den. Neither, she thinks, is he a norse husband, who might ply her with thralls and jewels in exchange for affection. No, he was a husband of the mountain; of Winsook, who understood what his wife needed before she voiced it. In admiring silence she stares at him, preserving this time alone with only the howl of wind to disturb them— just one moment longer before her mind returns to the corporeal.
“Behage. Strip skjul lave indpakninger. Urter her i cache, men har brug for mos fra Northwood og tebær fra slugten at stoppe brand hud. Behage  pleje @Elowen Aeloria og baby. Bringe kamille: tør hvid blomst i Stjernberg den.” She shifts and with a claw in the snow draws a crude shape: a flower with a wide center and many petals wreathing it. Then her paw stills. She hesitates, lip curling in bitter thought.
“Og Skorpa… tale @Lorcan? Skal vide valg. If that father leaves his wife and newborn to go fight another man’s absurd war then I want never to see him on the mountain again.”