Ouroboros Spine She comes from silver spoon,

Ippiksaut’s teeth stilled upon the strip of sinew she had been drawing tight, pale eyes lifting from the stretched hide that hung in its frame. The ulax hummed faintly nearby, sealing in the oils of another pelt already drying.
Her head tilted, assessing the girl who came forward with something slung across her back. Broad shoulders eased, and Ippiksaut shifted to stand— the stiff crackle of dried salt and smoke clinging to her fur.
Sǫ'agnak, she acknowledged softly, a flick of her ear as if to confirm the name Arrluk had spoken. Her voice was low, roughened by age and sea-wind, but not unkind.
The hide drew her eye, and for a heartbeat she only studied it before stepping nearer. You worked this? she asked, tone measured but touched with respect. Her paw brushed it once, testing the grain, the give.
Then her gaze rose to Ajei’s face, a faint, rare smile tugging the edges of her mouth. It is a strong gift. You honor me. Sit— let me see you.