ᐱ ᖃ ᓐ ᓇ ᕆ ᔭ ᐅ ᔪ ᑦ ᓴ ᓇ ᔭ ᐅ ᓯ ᒪ ᓕ ᖅ ᑐ ᑦ ᐊ ᒻ ᒪ ᓗ ᐱ ᓕ ᕆ ᓯ ᒪ ᓕ ᖅ ᖢ ᑎ ᒃ

Smoking good leaf among compatriots, and showing silly southern men a little rowdy fun for the sake of a job.

Today has been a good day.

The people of the south are much more in harmony with the Great Spirits than the Grandfathers have ever taught me. It has been long since we have ventured so far south, though.

I laugh a little to remember how frantic these friends were, each a character their own. If all the south were as warm as them, perhaps it is worth venturing further. Maybe I have spent too long here, protesting my cause to uncomfortable ears.

ᓇ ᓄ ᖅ ᐅ ᑎ ᖅ ᑐ ᖅ ᑲ ᓐ ᓄ ᔭ ᕐ ᒥ ᑦ ᖁ ᖓ ᓐ ᓂ ᕐ ᒥ ᓪ ᓗ

The warmth of my campfire is familiar, and a smile remains on my face as I finish the business of setting the neglected traps which had been interrupted for this job. A rabbit was caught here, and starved - spared a quick death by my negligence. A frown tugs at my lips, and replaces my cheer.

A prayer is offered to the Spirit of the North, and apologies made to the Qupirruit with its burnt offering. I will go hungry tonight, and find my meat tommorow.

As the fire goes low, I am still warmed. Charlie, she said these Spirits play a game with us. A fun game indeed. I await the next hunt.

ᑲ ᑎ ᖅ ᓱ ᕐ ᓗ ᒋ ᑦ ᐱ ᖁ ᑎ ᒃ ᑲ ᐆ ᓪ ᓗ ᒋ ᓪ ᓗ ᑐ ᒥ ᒃ ᑲ

I am in front of the governement hall of Juneau. I have spent many days into weeks into months in this place. I first stood here years ago, and pleaded my cause to whomever would listen. Broken english brokered no understanding. Thus I improved. Distant sentiment brokered no empathy. There I stayed.

I sat on these steps, holding signs, engaging passersby, the men of this small station knew me well and did not disdain me. They did not acknowledge me, either.

I stand here once again, there is no sign in my hands. A woman walks down the steps, and as is typical, her eyes rove over me and through me.

She bumps into me and squeals.

She apologizes continuously, fluttering around her dropped papers, and quickly is stepping away with the click-clacking of her plastic heels.

Hmm.

I step through the revolving doors of the building. The clerk's eyes flicker up to me, and back down with disinterest. As always.

I weave around corners, stumble past chattering secretaries and representatives all too tired of a station in a too-little state - dreaming of their careers in the south. Past guards engaged in conversation, discussing drinks after work. I pad down the hallways and onto the legislative floor.

Few people mill about, whispering in murmurs of the affairs of state to be discussed today. I stand tall, and I could speak. Speak on the floor where men are heard, speak of the bleeding ice and dying seas. I realize, still, no one sees me.

And no one will hear me. The payment I was rendered, I feel it now. And I know that nothing has changed.

I turn around, and go back the way I came; back to my camp, back to sleep. I too, dreamt of the south. Dreamt of the porcelain spires I was invited into, knew in my bones that if my salvation was anywhere, it must come from there.

Now, I go east.

      Nanook has changed. The feeling of his skin, his clothes, turbulent and assuming desired shapes, it is uncanny. Nanook has returned to Canada, and his knees are dredged in cold mud besides the water flowing out from beneath a frozen river. Even under the ice, water must flow, and under Nanook's skin the faces and dispositions do the same. It is confusing, roiling, and... itches. He itches for something more.

      He sees his frame reflected in the water. Traces with his eyes a broad frame, wretched over, broad hands, strangled hair; he sees the yellowed sclera of his eyes but his face? Whose face is that? How long was it his? Is this the face he was given when he was born, or did he take it just shortly after he was born? Does, does that make a difference...

      He doesn't suppose it helps much to wonder now. He feels at peace with the barbarism of form that continues to sprout within, and sprout out of his skin. Blackened nails, once cracked and awful, now covered with a sheen of beautiful onyx strength. Lesioned skin, lovingly roughened into a leather protective of its maker. Yellowed, diseased eyes; shying his vision away from the horrors of the hunt. To love one's own body is a beautiful feeling. To settle your hands down and you settle with them, to hear joints pop & crack into place and be welcomed home, to feed the aching faces beneath the skin and feel your belly full.

     Hmm. Tonight Nanook will hunt. They need some meat.