Dawnlark Plains Nɨ paa nɨ’a

silatuyok paused, thin limbs rooted in place. she blinked slow, as if awed by the welcome, as if her bones could not believe it. it had been long since she was offered shelter by another woman—longer still since she had spoken her name.
she lowered her muzzle to the offered meal first. a quiet, thankful sound rumbled in her throat, not quite a word. but when she lifted her head again, her pale eyes gleamed with emotion.
silatuyok, she said in broken common, tapping her narrow chest with a paw. of nishkaw’tep. moon sky.
she tilted her head then, ears twitching at ayovi’s question. elders teach lots, she rasped. long… time ago. i remember. this is language of people. her voice faded, throat dry. but her eyes said more—spoke of old roots and stories passed down in the cold.
she dipped her head again in gratitude. you are kind, she added quietly. but mother eats more. please. the word was shaped with care, reverence.