Larksong Grotto echoes of the past

A breeze swept across the wintry domain, stirring the snow's surface. In the cold night, Yesfir sat at the base of a tree, its sprawling, bare limbs stretching out towards the dark heavens. Cradled in her tender embrace lied the skull of a caribou-- cracked and weathered. Its life had long, long since been extinguished. Yet her head remained lowered towards its ivory sockets, her lips moving with quiet murmurs, as though her words might still be received by the beast's marrow. The sound was lost against the creaking of branches overhead.
There was a softness to the woman's eye. Gentle as the beat of a dove's wings-- yet tempered by a solemn air. If she hadn't occasionally lifted her gaze towards the night or over her pale shoulder, perhaps she could have passed as something born of the snow.