Northstar Vale itiktuk ❊

“It will be good to learn, for a change. To provide for my own people,”  a soft tundrian's hum.  “To grow.”

The more vaulted the boughs, the further the roots would reach;
and his words of whiskey returned now; not for the first, second, or third time did the knived ears wreathe with an insistent, infuriating flush that too soon began to bud beneath shorn cheeks. Each smile and every ache would be theirs, yes; but now was not at all appropriate for the quail to see the blossoming—
she had fair fallen to the shores of the gray havens amidst life and death at Bees' praise; fairylight could not now again let herself be either rended mute into rapture or  (perchance, worse!)  glimmer before tearful Quidalmë of her own unfathomable fortunes; and so near had she been of lapsing into either.

She supposes that now she has an answer for the inkling, though. Still, for the tribeswoman's sake:

“What, exactly, would a bride-price entail? A ... lease of neutral terrain? An accord? Ah,”  inexperience. A pause. Then, a pale shake of her marred brow; she could not dare send the mantled argent off in some exchange of buck fat.  “I will honor this custom, if you so wish it. But, you are worth far more than ... ah, than a brace of beavers.”

And held much more value than whomever the highest bidder would be ... but the spindly fée remained silent, for now, as a precious plot of her own began to take to seed within her half-addled head.