Dawnlark Plains Pagwį

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the pale woman turned her eyes to him, soft as fog yet sharp beneath—like the edge of flint buried in snow. her ears twitched once, and she regarded the ghost-white man as though he, too, had risen from the roots.
you speak like mountain, she said gently, her numic-woven common halting but careful. quiet. heavy.
she did not fear him, though her body remained poised. her furs—wrapped loose around a bundle of early yarrow—told stories of her homeland, of mist-walkers and herb-women, of the talon-faced gods above. the man smelled of cold things and distance, not violence. that was important.
to his question, she only smiled, slow and secretive.
earth take much, silatuyok agreed, brushing her paw against the damp soil, but always leave enough. always...
her gaze lifted again, this time to the frost in his eyes, the ache written quiet into his bones.
maybe not what we ask for. but something. always something.
then she motioned gently to the yarrow and leaned back, allowing silence again—offering space, should he need it, to ask for whatever it was he’d come seeking. or to stay. or not. the wind would decide. it always did.