Nova Peak Núuruachiu

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the morning air was crisp, tinged with frost that clung to the earth like a breath held too long. the rising sun poured soft gold across the camp.
her paws moved in rhythm, practiced and precise—laying strips of elk meat over a low-drying frame of stripped branches, salted and pulled tight. her tongue clicked softly as she hummed an old lullaby beneath her breath. a mother’s song. a moon song. one her grandmother had carried on long nights in the basin.
above her, crows murmured in the trees. the wind curled through the mountain’s ribs, brushing along her pale back. and beneath her skin, a knowing stirred.
something warm. low. ancient.
she paused.
eyes downcast, she pressed the flat of her paw against her belly, feeling the thrum of blood, the slow climb of heat like the waxing of the moon. it was not here—not yet. but soon. she could feel it in the pit of her body, in the way her fur felt too tight, her senses too sharp.
it is time, the spirits whispered.
silatuyok said nothing in return. only hummed, and kept working.

the hush of morning carried far in the high places, as did she. anoré broke the horizon, then descended the shallow ridges with dew flecked upon her coat. the song met her ears before the scent did. of salted meats ready for the smoking. it reminded her of the villages back home, of the people toiling over an honest day's work.
an unfamiliar shape worked quietly by the frame. pale fur. gentle knowing. the air stirred around her like the hush before rain. for a moment, the ache behind her eyes pulled, but she blinked it away.
anoré stepped forward, "your voice is lovely." she says at first, giving the woman a once-over before inspecting her work. 
the meats were evenly sliced and drawn tight in practiced rows. clean work. she musters a polite, but authentic smile, "as are your paws."

---

silatuyok lifted her head gently at the sound, ears turning before her gaze did. the woman was white as bone, soft as fresh snow, and the grace in her step reminded silatuyok of drifting mist along a frozen river. quiet. thoughtful. lovely in a way that made the world seem still for a moment.
she smiled, soft and warm like the sun between storms.
you are kind, she said. i am only keeping the old ways. meat should last through many moons. a pause, and her paw lifted to gesture with humble pride toward the frame. my ata’pa taught me. she say always slice like wind cuts ice.
her eyes drifted, taking in the stranger’s poise. there was quietness in her eyes too. not silence—but memory.
you walk far? she asked, shifting slightly to make room. you may sit. i crush berries and soak leaves to drink. if you wish.

there was something in the woman's tone—gentle, without expectation—that was a balm to her aching bones.
"walk far—yes." she admitted, wearily, but steady, "farther still in thought."
she stepped closer and settled into the empty space, a slight tension still lingering in her posture. it wasn't just the weariness from the journey; it was a lifetime of old habits, of instincts unlearned.
"you keep your people's tradition alive. it is admirable, to tend to something old." she watches the woman. her hands that moved so deftly, guided by intuition and memory. with care, continuity, reverence. 
"where i come from, we make mead. never tried berries or leaves." she rolls her shoulders, shaking free the rigidity, "i will try, if you will drink too, with me."

---

silatuyok smiled, warm and soft as the mist curling off the river’s surface. she said nothing at first—only dipped her head in quiet agreement, setting the cupped leaf inside, the leaves steeped, already bleeding their color into the warm spring water. small red berries floated there too, delicate and bright.
here, she murmured, voice like smoke through cedar, nudging the bowl toward the snow-hued woman with her nose. we drink.
she leaned back, letting the steam rise. not... mead, a low chuckle escaped her. but warm. sweet. it help tired bones.
her tail curled around her paws. soft-eyed, she added, i would like to hear how you make yours. mead. someday.

the delicate drink tastes mildly sweet, just as she'd said. like diluted honey down her throat, warming her from the inside. it was nothing like the bitter, heavy brews she'd known, concoctions made to fortify the body against cold.
"it is lighter than what i am used to—" she admits, "but good, unexpecting. takk fyrir."
the sweetness lingers on her tongue, subtle and unassuming. no sharpness. so like the woman before her. so unlike these frostburned mountains.
"one day, when winds grow cold, i may show you. makes the soul hot. good for northern winter." 
her question comes without warning. it is direct, but not unkind, "but you are not northern. like winsook lands. why choose here?"

---

silatuyok smiled, the warmth of the tea still tracing down her throat like sunlight. her gaze met the raven-colored woman’s with open honesty.
from plains, she answered softly, her accent turning the words rounded and gentle. long ways. not strang-er to winters. a small shrug of her shoulders followed, as if to say the snow did not frighten her—it had been part of her for as long as she remembered.
ayovi is like... cousin, she added after a beat, eyes flicking toward the mountain where her friend had gone. there was fondness in the way she said it, but also sorrow tucked in the corners of her voice. she ask. i come.
another sip of the hot leaves. the steam curled around her muzzle as she breathed it in, then exhaled slow.

anoré drank in silence for a moment longer, the warmth of the tea settling into her chest like embers beneath snow. 
there is an dull, hidden ache in the woman's gold-dusted words. she let it steep like the tea between them.
then her eyes drifted, not toward the mountain, but the horizon, as if searching. a long pause passes through their space. but it is comfortable, and she does not reject it.
"family," she said at last, "when it is true, it binds like sinew. stronger than the spine. it calls you home even when you do not know where that is."
she shifted then, slow and thoughtful.
"—but the wolf that follows the trail of another may never know the shape of her own hunt."
a beat.
"what is it you seek?"

---

silatuyok sat quiet, steam from the tea curling soft against her pale lashes. the question settled between them like snow — not heavy, but cold in truth.
her voice came featherlight.
ahh… not know. not yet. she shrugged gently, ears tipping, but her gaze did not lift.
i think… i am what every moiety daughter want to be. the words came without pride — just a fact, like wind or winter. her tea was cradled between her paws, untouched now.
she looked to the edge of the den, where stone met open air, and blinked.
but i do not know what i want. there was a softness in her voice then, almost apologetic. a truth too long buried, rising quiet in the shared silence between women.
her smile was faint.
maybe… i find it here. or i lose it. but i walk.

there was something painfully familiar in the girl's voice. of uncertainty stitched into strength. the kind of that was taught, not chosen. passed down like heirlooms of bone and duty.
her tea had long cooled, but she did not drink. instead, she studied her, as one might inspect a map drawn in fading ink—searching for truth in lines that might shift beneath the eye.
but anoré did not know what the will of her people was. only that there seemed to be a tired sorrowness wrought in her words.
so, she is silent, for a while. until the girl's words have long drifted far from their space.
when she finally speaks again, it is with a firm kindness, "and what shall i call you—" a glance and a smile, "when you are not trying to figure out what you want?”

---

i am silatuyok, she said at last, voice quiet but steady. her accent thickened the words, shaped them with the north.
then, her gaze lifted—curious, gentle. you...?
a pause, not for lack of knowing what to say, but for care in saying it. her head tilted slightly, pale ears fanning forward.