Moonstone Quarry Like blood upon the snow

the hide was old.

thick with grease and sun-dried dust, it held the weight of the kill still in its fibers. hair clung stubborn in coarse tufts, matted with old blood along the edges where teeth had first found flesh.

sólhárr worked it slowly—one paw scuffing along the surface, loosening the pelt from where it had stiffened in the cold. his claws scraped the ridge of the shoulder, pulling free the scent of time and sweat, the memory of pursuit across snow-packed stone.

a gift, once. a trial.
now just hide and history.

his breath moved through his nose in a steady rhythm, eyes half-lidded, listening—not for danger, not for prey, but for her.

@Anoana.

he hadn’t seen her since the last storm passed through moonstone, scattering scent and flooding the lower run. but she lingered still, like the whisper of frost before it touched the ground. her knowledge, her silence, the way her gaze reached through men instead of around them.

Anoana had always been a calm and quiet woman. Her voice like a whisper on the wind. Her spirit strong and silent like the first stirring of a long winter to come. She could be as beautiful and appealing as a new snow but as harsh and unrelenting as the towering ice mountains of home. 

Here, she was just the same. Outside, at least. Within, her heart ached and her spirit burned with the fires that had stolen her home. Outside, she was polite and humble and she had taken herself to keep herself busy in her work. A new home needed much tending. Visitor dens to be dug, healing quarters to be prepared, herbs to be collected, a garden to cultivate, borders to lay thick with their new claim, caches to be filled... 

Rest no longer came easier for her. Shut eyes made her relive a past she did not think to ever the pleasure to forget. 

She would wake screaming. 

It was another day Anoana went out to collect. Her storage was already beginning to swell though she had yet to pick out an area for her healing quarters and garden. The smell of the hyacinth and the Hárkonungr drew her near. 

Góður vinnudagur, Hárkonungr? She says with a smooth smile as she stops to watch the great red man work the old hide.

sólhárr lifted his head at the sound of her voice—quiet as snowfall, but sharp enough to part the wind. he had known anoana long enough to recognize the weight behind her calm, the grief stitched beneath her civility like a thread pulled too tight. her tongue was soft, but her eyes spoke of a woman who had endured, and endured well.

he rose from where he crouched over the hide, the pale light tracing the ridge of his scarred brow, one eye meeting hers with a calm that did not reach his mouth. that remained still, grave, but not unkind.

anoana, he greeted, her name thick in his throat like a prayer unsaid too long. he dipped his head—not out of obligation, but respect.

his tail shifted once behind him, slow.

vinna er góð, he replied lowly, glancing to the worn hide stretched beneath his paw. but i find it better when the day brings company.

his gaze lingered a beat longer on her face—searching, not prying.

His body lifted, the light of day catching on his nape, alighting the mahogany hues like fire. Flecks of lighter hues a star-sparkle in between. ....Fire. Her limbs stiffened. 

The formality between them thick. They carried the same weight with the same stoic northern make. Would they ever find laughter and a fluttering in their hearts again? Would they ever run the snow fields with happiness in their soul? 

The Hárkonungr dips his head. A silent respect given where then followed by Anoana's own lowering of crown and sweeping back of her feathered white ears. 

And so it has. She takes a breath. The fates are in your favor this day. She says, a small smile reaching her features. Her pale eyes meeting his darker, piercing one. I know the work... would you like help with stretching it?

aye, he answered simply, the word carrying the warmth of acceptance, if not the fire of more youthful times. his tail gave a single, muted sway at his hocks.

he moved toward the hide stretched over the rocks, the worn sinew bindings needing a second set of teeth and paws to draw them taut. his broad frame stooped as he gripped one corner, muscles shifting like stone beneath his coat. a quiet glance was spared for anoana — not command, but invitation — before he set to the work, sure in the knowledge that she would meet him in it.

if laughter was not yet ready to return to them, then labor would. shoulder to shoulder, as it had been before grief had hardened them both.

Despite that it was work which they did now, there was a brightness in his eye, returned by a glint in Anoana's own. Work for her (as likely him) was a pleasurable thing. Keeping busy kept her mind from hard memories. It also made her feel pride in her usefulness, fulfilling and just good in having a job well done. That, and this part here could be fun. 

As Sólhárr took postion, so did Anoana at the other side of the rock. She takes in a large mouthful of the pelt so that it is less likely to tear from the strain. This was old leather, hardened and well worn already, making it even more durable then one of fresh kill. 

He would pull and she was yank back against them as they moved the pelt back and forth over the sharp rock in a bit of tug-o-war. Anoana felt the strain in her neck after a time, yet her brown tail still swayed with enjoyment behind her.

solhárr’s grip held fast, teeth deep in old hide as the pelt strained between them. rock scraped beneath, a rhythm like drumbeats buried in snow. his stance was low, weight braced against the pull, and across from him, anoana grinned through the leather like a girl playing at war.

he let out a low grunt — not from effort, but something amused, approving. there was strength in her. not loud strength, not the kind that snapped jaws or filled dens with shouting. but the good kind. the kind he respected.

good work, he said around the pelt, muffled but clear. he gave another tug, enough to jostle her, testing for her balance. you pull like a wolf twice your size.

his one good eye watched her tail swaying, the enjoyment in her movement. the work was plain, but there was joy in it, too — joy in shared labor, in the wear of teeth and muscle against purpose. he understood that well.

when this is smooth, he added with a slight growl of effort, it’ll make a fine lining for the denmouth. good against snow.

other post wasnt showing up for some reason so made a second!

An approving grunt was enough to keep her at work, pushing through the pain like a stretched pulling in her neck. It was a workout she had not had in months, for it had been this long, if not longer, had she been among packmates to assist with this duty. Her primary had been in caregiving, healing the troubles of ones mind, body and spirit. As it were, it was now a time for her to heed her own lessons and do some healing on herself. This, this work here, was good for her. 

A harder pull he then gives her, a test and her body does not try to pull against it. She would be foolish to think she could outmatch the man in brute strength. She leans in further with the larger, stronger pull to move with it, then presses her back feet deep into the quarry grounds and crouches her back legs to pull back at her turn. 

Ekkert tré stendur eitt. Words of their people spilt into the quarry through clenched jaws.