Lost Creek Hollow There's delays on the planes out of Eastern Montana

her head tilts, just slightly, enough for the sharp arc of her gaze to catch the light. she does not answer his words right away—she does not rush for anyone. instead, she finishes her mouthful, the sinew pulling clean, tongue rasping once across blood-slick lips.
then she speaks. one word. her name.
drífa.
it is not offered like a gift. not laced with invitation. it simply is.
she watches him now, expression unreadable beneath the ice-toned mask of her face. her voice is rough with disuse, but not unkind. her ear twitches.
strange name, she says at last, eyes narrowing just a breath. never heard.
it is not an insult. it is a truth.
drífa looks at him like one might regard an unfamiliar tool—perhaps useful, perhaps not. her body remains coiled over the kill, but she does not guard it from him now. his interest lies elsewhere. she knows this. she studies him as he settles.