Duskfire Glacier [m] Village song

Tikigâk felt the tension of its resistance, tight and taut, and then its utter stillness as its pulse beat no more, esophagus seized to swift asphyxiation. When it was done, she too released it, licking the blood from her chops before she stepped over the dead beast they had felled. We eat, he said. 

She sniffed at the foreleg he had used to swipe at his muzzle, then lifted her head up again to face him—he still watched her, and she stood a little taller for it, proud beneath his sharp gaze. 

His observations made were astute, and so she did not refute them—the other words were regarded first with a rumble of agreement. She would, too. Words are wind. They will not feed you, protect you, keep you warm, she answered the man who spoke like an impending storm, but on you—words are not wasted. 

Often, she thought speaking was a waste of time, of energy. It was not so when she was speaking with him—he had heard her voice more than any other in her lifetime. 

Tikigâk nipped his fur fondly, administering upon him her own rough brand of affection, before she moved to tear into their shared meal.