Ouroboros Spine ᐊ avvik

she hummed softly— a sound without melody, only the low rhythm of thought. the finished pelt hung stiff upon its frame, pale and clean, the work of her hands alone. she stepped aside from it, reaching for the next— heavier, darker, still slick at the edges.

when he came nearer, his voice all smoke and mischief, she did not answer at once. instead she pressed the hide against the wooden brace and said, if your teeth are for speaking and not biting, then make them useful.

her eyes, mismatched and glinting, flicked toward him. take that corner. pull until it sings tight.

his tail brushed her flank; she ignored it like a fly. the corners of her mouth twitched, not in amusement, but in command.

you may tell a story, she allowed, tone measured, as she smoothed the hide with her paw. one with blood in it, war. not love. love stories are for children and liars.