Bitterroot Valley objects of ceremony

sega huffed, a low sound that might’ve been a laugh if it had more air in it. his gaze lifted to the stars, then back to miska, something wry tugging at the corner of his muzzle.

old life? he echoed, voice rough. hn. not much left to sacrifice.

he shifted, shoulders rolling beneath his thick coat.

river take some. flood take rest. wandering take all the pieces between.

a pause — then he tipped his chin toward the dark stretch of land around them, his land, forming itself bone by bone.

great sky… that what i build now, he said. not tribe yet. but start.

another small flick of his tail in the dirt. almost sheepish. almost proud.

so i give old life to wind, sega added, glancing at him. and make new one here. with who stay.