Nova Peak ❇ Tēnsha

her ears turned first at the sound of his steps—heavy, dragging the weight of death behind them. snow crunched, wind whispered, and still she did not look up.
not yet.
her song, low and old, drifted like breath in the cold. a prayer for the soul of the creature, a thank you for what would nourish them. only once the buck fell beside her did her voice soften into silence.
she lifted her head slowly, eyes pale and warm despite their weariness. his scent hit her next—blood and frost, the faint iron of his own wound.
her body dipped low in quiet thanks. respect.
good, she murmured. the word was small, but not empty. her gaze flicked to the shoulder, the stain along his fur. you bleed.
then she turned, deft and sure, and began her work.
she peeled hide from muscle, revealing the rich meat beneath, hands skilled and reverent. the scent of sage lingered strong. her touch was gentle, precise, as if the buck were still sacred even in death.
then, after a moment—no more than a whisper—
does wife...eh, want... she gestured to the hide.