Nova Peak ❇ Tēnsha

AW!

the river whispered over smoothed stones, cold and clear as the sky above. silatuyok stood knee-deep in the melt-fed stream, a pale figure amidst the mist and low light. her breath rose in clouds. dawn had only just begun to press lavender against the horizon.
between her paws floated the limp body of an arctic fox, its silver-white fur stained faintly with blood. she had hunted it before sunrise, lured by the promise of a fine winter hide. not for vanity—she did not indulge in such things—but for use. for warmth. for trade. for gifting, perhaps, should the winds demand generosity.
now she worked with quiet purpose, turning the pelt gently in the river’s current. she had stripped it with care, minding the delicate edges. beside her on a sun-warmed stone bloomed a scatter of dried chamomile flowers, gathered the day before. her nose dipped, brushing them into the stream, and she watched them float—bright suns on dark water.
tuyul, she murmured to the river. peaceful. a word in her tongue, meant to show reverence. the water answered with a soft gurgle between her toes.
behind her, nova peak loomed like a sentinel. and somewhere within its ridges were the wolves she now called kin: winsook. ayovi. the mountain-people!
she did not know how long she would stay, but for now, her hands were full. her belly fed. and the spirits were quiet.
silatuyok pressed the fox pelt into the stream again, watching the blood leach away in faint red spirals.

lorcan had risen early, awoken by the whining mewling of @Kaldros. forced to leave the den before he was driven insane by his incessant babbling and elowen's exhausting complaining and neediness. hunger and duty sharpened his steps, but this morning he hunted neither meat nor threat.
he followed the scent of blood—it led him down to the stream where mist curled like breath around the rocks, and the sky turned slow shades of lavender and rose.
he found her there.
watching her work, and then grunting, tsking. "could’ve eaten that." the merc shrugs. "guess it’ll make a decent trade."

her ears turned first—then flattened, in fear.
she did not look at him right away.
not food, she said, voice soft but sure, picking her way through the foreign tongue like stepping over ice-thin river stones. trade, yes.
then a pause as she lifted the blood-soaked herb gently from the stream, letting it drip. her pale eyes flicked to him briefly.
it… she struggled for the next word, the shape of it. then—
mothers. for den.
another pause. longer this time. she shifted the bundle in her jaw and lowered it onto the bay. she began to chew the meat, pieces for mothers.
you… need hunt. not complain.
then, just a flick of her tail as she turned back to her task.

feel free to timeskip in next post!

he paused mid-step, one ear twitching. they don’t care how it smells. the merc snorts. but he looks back anyway. watching her work, wasting little time. hmph.
lorcan clicked his tongue, shook his head. fine. your call. just don’t rub it on the meat. personally, lorcan didn't want his den smelling like girls. certainly didn't want his food tasting like flowers.
he turned, climbing out of the stream, water sliding off his legs. i’ll be back before sundown, he muttered. with something that bleeds. and just like that, he was gone—low to the ground, already vanishing into the trees.
following the ridge, heading towards the bedding ground he'd last scented. they'd be settled down now.

she did not answer right away.
only watched him go—silent, steady, a flicker of something unreadable in her pale eyes. she listened to his footsteps until they were swallowed by stone and distance. only then did she move again, slow and precise.
not flowers, she muttered softly to no one. sage.
setting the fur aside, she shook it out once, twice, before stretching it across the flat rock to dry, smoothing the edges with practiced ease. the stream murmured nearby. she did not mind its company.
then the meat—clean cuts, salted with a careful hand. her jaw worked quietly, setting rhythm to the task. preserving what could be kept. no waste.
and when it was all laid in order, she sat back on her haunches, gazing toward the trees where he’d gone.
she hoped he would not bring death to their door. not yet.

he returns past sundown. the snow clings, red-threaded at the shoulder where the buck had kicked once—reflex, nothing more. its body drags heavy behind his jaws, limp now. a young thing, wiry, not yet a stag. good eating.
he drops it near the rock, where her sage is spread drying, bitter-sweet in the air. the cuts are neat. the pelt, clean. everything in its place.
he eyes it for a moment longer than he should, before snorting—dry, a huff through his nose.
he gives the carcass a nudge with his paw. good kill. fresh. another pause, then, more quietly, kaldros will like the marrow.

her ears turned first at the sound of his steps—heavy, dragging the weight of death behind them. snow crunched, wind whispered, and still she did not look up.
not yet.
her song, low and old, drifted like breath in the cold. a prayer for the soul of the creature, a thank you for what would nourish them. only once the buck fell beside her did her voice soften into silence.
she lifted her head slowly, eyes pale and warm despite their weariness. his scent hit her next—blood and frost, the faint iron of his own wound.
her body dipped low in quiet thanks. respect.
good, she murmured. the word was small, but not empty. her gaze flicked to the shoulder, the stain along his fur. you bleed.
then she turned, deft and sure, and began her work.
she peeled hide from muscle, revealing the rich meat beneath, hands skilled and reverent. the scent of sage lingered strong. her touch was gentle, precise, as if the buck were still sacred even in death.
then, after a moment—no more than a whisper—
does wife...eh, want... she gestured to the hide.

her eyes find the wound. he answers only with a grunt. rocks were slick. lorcan huffs, feigning some sort of amused sound. more friendly than his earlier demeanor. not deep. won’t slow me.
he watches her work. her hands are steady and practiced, tending with ease. treating the body like it still matters—something that stirs a fond memory—and lorcan watches as if mesmerized for just a moment. then her voice again—asks of his wife.
he snorts, frost rising with it. she’s soft, and always cold. i'll give it to her. she'll hold it like it’s one of her pups.
pause. then quieter. something bone-deep.
she’ll like it. they'll be warm. it was hard to hide his growing frustrations, his resentments towards both wife and child for overrunning his life.
lorcan had thought he'd been ready for this. he was swiftly beginning to realize: maybe he was not. and maybe he never would be.

silatuyok worked in silence for a time, her touch careful, reverent. the way she cleaned blood and pressed poultice—it wasn’t just practice. it was ritual. as though tending a body honored more than just the skin.
when he spoke of his wife, she tilted her head slightly. soft, and always cold.
a flicker of understanding passed through her eyes.
then... she be snow flower, she said quietly. grow even in snow.
she did not say more, did not probe the pain behind his breath. but when he looked away, she watched him.
and after a long silence, she offered, “i can… give her.”
her voice was gentle. hesitant.
we… no meet. yet. her pale eyes lifted to his.
you look—kwitsi'nawa. a ghost of a smile tugged at her lips. they come when things hard. but stay when there still hope.

lorcan snorts, soft and tired. snow flower, it is muttered gruffly. he flexes his paw, gauging the sting.
quiet for a moment, then he speaks up. eyes finding hers. she’d like you, soft muttering as he settles alongside her. elowen is fond of quiet wolves with strange wisdoms.
a back-handed comment, maybe.
the word—it is foreign to him. but he laughs, a warm chuckle, raspy in its cadence. and what is a... kwitsi'nawa? brows raise in question, firm upon her.

a flicker of confusion flashed across her face, followed by a soft exhale through her nose, as if the foreignness of the language puzzled her, but she understood the intent.
kwitsi’nawa… she repeated slowly, her voice soft and rough like wind scraping over ice. she wasn’t sure she could say it right, but the word felt like an echo in her chest. something old, something tied to the land, to the people who had spoken it before her.
her ears flicked back slightly as she let the word sink into the air, then she shook her head lightly. err... dark... bird. she repeated again, the words coming easier this time, though her accent thickened the sounds.
she caught his look and gave a nod. not... like... you. not loud, she added, her gaze steady on him. wise, listen... not speak much.
her tail flicked once, twitching in thought, then she returned to the ground, lowering herself back down onto her haunches, leaving a respectful distance between them. we speak... how needed. her voice was soft, not defensive.