Nate was Raven Chief. So it was appropriate, maybe even expected, that he should oversee the preparations of a wedding. At the very least he ought to make sure the husband-to-be didn't get gored to death by a boar on the eve of his union.

Ȟákac'enyu had chosen this man. Nate was glad for them. It ached in an unfair way — he'd never made an earnest bid for her affections, and never let himself intend to.

His heart stayed buried in the ground, left behind when hateful men condemned his love for Eleanore. How could he consider striving for the heart of another, when he hadn't one to give? How could that be anything other than betrayal to the woman he'd died for? It wasn't proper.

And though he had no reason to anticipate Samo's insecurity, a lifetime spent prior feeling out of place or in the way made Nate more sensitive than most to the potential he had for causing distress. He wanted to make it plain they had his support. The ache in his chest would be his own to nurse, and not darken the doorstep of the home the pair were making.

So Nate offered a yip of warcry approval to Samo's proclamation, and moved to follow.

His blue eyes locked then upon the shape of a horse in the grey, staggering him out of his gait. A hungry looking thing, not shiny enough in coat to give him optimism about her odds for winter.

Walosi didn't hunt horses — but he marked her, to seek out later. Maybe he could herd her to the sweetgrass that frost hadn't yet done away with, further in the Nestle.

He wondered if she was curious enough to follow.