Nova Peak Tämäh

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silatuyok worked with the quiet devotion of one who knew pain too intimately to flinch from it. she was careful, precise—her tongue and teeth delicately pulled dried herbs from their braid, then pressed poultice to wound with moss that steamed gently with cedar and willow bark. her breath came in soft rhythms, a prayer beneath it all, though no words were said aloud this time.
hold, she murmured finally, not as command, but a kind invitation—one meant for ayovi’s body, coaxing her to stay steady through the worst of it. her pale paws moved to lay more pressure where the blood still oozed faintly. warm, red life. too much of it had already been lost.
the sharp scent of crushed juniper lingered in the air as she leaned closer to inspect the stitching—a weave done by her own design.
silatuyok did not speak of the children, but her gaze flicked often to them. then back to their mother, who bore every wound without the cry of a coward.
they look like you, she said at last, breaking her silence with a soft breath of truth. her tone was reverent, as if she too had been stunned by the sight of the tiny, fire-flecked lives. and they drink. this is good.
a pause, before she added more gently, soon you feed them. but rest now. this... this is your own battle.
and gently, again, she pressed poultice to broken flesh. quietly, as the mountain winds howled beyond them.