Nova Peak Niende Dag

he’s found himself a seat—a flat stone near the edge of the gathering, far enough from the warmth and cheer to gripe in peace, close enough to keep one eye on the pups and another on the food. ten-sons is dressed in nothing fancy. no paint, no feathers.

just the same piss-sour muskox hide he’s been wearing since before half these wolves were born.

the old man grumbles when someone bumps him. he snaps at a young wolf who gets too close with ochre-stained paws. watch it, paint-boy. get that sissy powder on me and i’ll roll you down the ridge.

but he’s quiet, mostly. chewing on some tough bit of ox meat. he settles deeper into his furs, bones creaking. watching the sky with one half-lidded eye.