Ouroboros Spine She comes from silver spoon,

Looking for other members of MG. All welcome.

 
The morning air was sharp, crisp enough to sting her lungs when she drew it deep. Frost clung to the edges of the ulax, sparkling faintly as the sun crept higher, and smoke from the hearth drifted thin above the clustered shelters.
Ippiksaut worked just beyond the threshold of her own, steady and practiced in the old rhythm of women’s hands. A caribou hide was stretched across a frame of lashed wood, its edges pulled taut with rawhide thongs. She leaned close, scraping carefully at the membrane with a shard of stone, the sound a low rasp that kept pace with her breath.
Nearby, other pelts lay weighted with stones, soaking to loosen what remained. She would chew the thinner pieces clean, stretch them again, dry them until they were supple and soft as river grass. Skins meant warmth, trade, and the bride-price of daughters yet to come.
The village moved faintly in her periphery, but Ippiksaut’s focus was here— tending the hides, keeping alive the work her mother had taught her in the shadow of the sea.