Herbalists' Cache muradoii II

sivaak grunts low. she does not jerk away when black hawk brushes her; the swollen side of her belly quivers beneath the touch. her teeth bare, but not in warning. it is only the habit of a war-torn hunter.
hawk stink of moss, she mutters, not truly insult. her breath curls in the cold as red eyes flick toward hawk. acceptance lives there, buried beneath war and frost.
meat. she says at last. not rabbit. not rat. not dry bird. her tongue swipes the corner of her mouth, voice roughening. find sivaak marrow. fat. a pause follows. sivaak feed pups now.
she leans, only barely, into the warmth of black hawk’s shoulder. sivaak come with. watch you hunt. red eyes glinting with not quite affection, but something more primal.