Bitterroot Valley kiira-k ikug-luk

Scattered around her were limbs. He thought them sticks at first, which was odd, for the field was barren. They were lined with thin coarse hair, some hide, and where roots should be there were instead toes, which were clue enough that he was wrong.

She was speaking to the wind. Perhaps this was a prayer of some kind. The wolf wondered why such a thing was needed - neither he, nor his people, ascribed to such superstition.

Stop your chanting. I have need of a hunter to aid me. Come, be of use.

The wolf spoke in their shared language and wondered if his speaking might surprise her to action. He did not care about the strong manner of his tone or the command that was within the words, expecting to be heeded.