A pull of a crooked smile, a shoulder nudging in his direction to lift up that thinking head of his. “Sure.”

There was pain there, she noticed. And for just a moment, she wondered what might be more behind him. How many stories went untold when no one cared to ask? And for someone who had come so far such as he, with no one but a slave girl and a friend who was now far, far away, did he desire for a slate wiped clean of all past self?

Perhaps being like many others would be better. To let the past be forgotten and wound in tight strings.
And yet she kept wondering.

“Well, if she was anything like you, she must’ve been a pretty good woman.” Aivar could be a pain, considering all the charged attitude and the spitfire words, but Nutuyikruk imagined a mother as spitefully stubborn and forward. Forthcoming, and yet kind.


“My aaka, my third mother— was a feral mountaineer who raided many tribes. But she treated me as her own for all I can remember. I never met my birthmother, but I imagine she must have been as crazy as I am.” Or perhaps less so.
The concept of cleansing a pelt seemed not difficult in her eyes, but when met with question of it, Nutuyikruk did not waste a second on doing anything other than showing him. They could do it together.

One step out into the water, small fish scattering from the teeth which leaned to grab a fleshy pelt. Being lazy with them came useful. Spreading it out in front of them flat, she laid down near his side and nipped at flesh carefully with her front teeth. “We first need to get most of this flesh off.”

“Was your mother a hunter?”