Nova Peak [nd] Nįwa

AW for the festivities

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the white fox pelts draped over her shoulders, soft and gleaming, shimmered against the deeper tones of her fur. she carried trinkets too—small bone carvings and polished stones strung together by sinew—tokens of the hunt, gifts from the land. they clinked softly with her every step, a rhythmic reminder of her skill and her connection to the earth.
the air was filled with the mingling smells of meats, fresh herbs, and sweet fruits—piles of fermented chokeberries and honeyed streamwater tempting all who passed. silatuyok’s gaze swept over the gathering, taking in the bursts of laughter, the low hum of conversation, and the rhythm of dancers moving as one. a feast, a celebration. a time for the warriors to rest their blades, for the land to be honored.
she placed her trinkets carefully on a platter of leaf, arranging them in a way that made them easy to reach. she dipped her head in greeting to @Ayovi, the scent of mink fur heavy in the air. a smile softened her normally guarded expression, but her focus shifted quickly back to the others—an invitation to celebrate, to share, to give.

It was not a splendorous affair, lacking the opulence and finery of more established settlements. But Winsook had no need of riches, he tastes something ancient in the air and finds himself wholly entertained by the dance and drink and gladly fills his belly on Northern marrow.

Along the fringe of the festivities he allows the stark green of his eyes to drift over an effeminate beauty, paw lifting to finger the delicacy of her token. He thought of the road, of dark eyes.

“How much?”

ty for joining;;!

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silatuyok’s pale lashes fluttered as the man’s gaze found her, lingering on the furs draped across her slender shoulders. she felt the hardness in his eyes, the edge of battle written into the scars along his frame—an old story, told quiet, but never forgotten.
her own paws were small, careful as she offered the softest of pelts—rabbit, fox, white as morning frost. her smile came shy and warm, not polished, only true.
take, she said, gentle voice catching in the hush between languages, the syllables soft and halting. free. for warrior. she tilted her head, a ripple of feathers dancing at her cheek. fur keep warm. soft. a nod, earnest. for journey.”
her hands pressed the furs closer, her gaze steady—innocent, yes, but not naive. kindness was her currency, and in the north, it was worth more than gold.

of course!

Free. The man’s eyes sharpen. Lowlight flickers across the woman’s high cheeks, illuminating the fine frost around her muzzle, the wind-chafed velvet of her ears. She was sweet— her offer indeed a northern warmth the mongol had not expected of the mountain wolves.

“Can’t accept free,” Jamukha cocks a brow, as if in deliberation. “How about a dance?”

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ilatuyok blinked, breath catching faint behind her teeth. a dance?
the word lingered, strange and tender, suspended between them like breath in the cold. her ears twitched, and she looked away—not out of rejection, but shyness, her paws shifting gently in the snow. her heart beat like a hare beneath her ribs, startled but curious.
i… she began, voice feather-light, caught somewhere between wonder and hesitation, ...don’t know.
dancing was not something she’d ever been asked for. not like this. not from a man who looked like war but asked like it was nothing.
her gaze flicked up to his face again—wary, unsure, but touched with warmth.
are you sure? she asked softly, bashful and bare, as if the answer might shake something loose in her. me?

“You.” Jamukha tilts his head, eyes narrowing enough to suggest amusement. “Why not you?”

Did she not know her own beauty? It could not have been the first time a man sought her in dance, but this resistance reads like true modesty.

Around them the feast roars on, paws like muted thunder drumming in rhythm to inherited songs. Jamukha’s grins, and steps out alongside her, offering a shoulder to the nameless northwoman.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know how,” he lowers his words in teasing.

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silatuyok’s ears flattened slightly, a bashful flick of emotion crossing her face like cloudshadow. she did not meet his eyes—not right away. his voice was warm, teasing, playful in a way that pulled at the edges of her, but she was not made for spotlights. not used to being seen like this.
my… people… she mumbled, words shaped slowly in broken common, laced and soft as powder snow, they… dance.
she did not finish the thought. her tongue pressed shyly into the inside of her cheek as if searching for braver words, then, with a tiny shake of her head—no, no more speaking.
instead, she stepped past him, quiet as snowfall. paws brushing the earth. her shoulders relaxed, the rhythm of the drums humming through her bones, and slowly, her body began to move. soft steps at first. subtle as breath. but growing.
a turn. a lift of her paw. a sway of her hips that wasn’t bold, but sure. old. carried from the ancestors who’d taught dance not as performance, but as prayer.
she did not look back at him.
but the invitation, like her, was gentle and open.

Jamukha watches her whirl away from him into the dancers. The horselord takes his time in joining her, eyes riding the length of sculpted shoulders as she sways. Where they join into long legs. She is strong, like the mares of his steppe.

And the rider is eager to join them together, doing so in two broad strides. He does not know this dance but he learns quickly, adding the flair of his own biyelgee as he shifts to catch her.

“You move in the same way you speak,” the rider draws her against him, so she might feel the murmur of his words. “Soft. And beautiful. Tell me your name.”

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her face flushed beneath his gaze—rosy warmth beneath pale fur, bashful as moonlight caught in snow. the compliment curled into her like smoke, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. she didn’t answer at first, only spun again, letting her body speak in turns and gentle steps, the fringe of her furs swaying with her.
then, close—closer—she let herself press to him, breath catching softly in her throat as her chest met his. her head tilted up, a shy smile playing at the corner of her lips as she answered, voice barely louder than the hum of drums around them.
silatuyok, she said, the name shaped careful in her mouth, sacred in how it was given. she laughed then, a sound like wind through wildflowers, leaning back just enough to catch his eyes. and you, southern boy?
her question held no edge, only wonder—like asking the name of a star she’d never seen before.