Jade Fern Grove crying spire

south of the bypass, the land opens its throat to the wind.
uktark works in silence over the caribou, forelimbs braced, shoulders rolling as he peels hide from flesh with practiced economy. the kill was clean. the pelt will be good—thick, unscarred, winter-heavy. worth keeping.
but curing it is not his work. never has been.
he pauses only once, breath steaming as he lifts his head and scents the air. waiting. wondering if she will appear, and he can impress her once more.
@Fuyao.
his jaws click softly as he returns to the task, finishing the cut, freeing the hide in one broad pull. he drapes it over a stone to cool, marking the place with a low huff.
he is not done here.
when the work is finished, he turns south again, leaving the carcass for scavengers and the pelt for hands better suited than his.
he searches for her.