Jade Fern Grove crying spire

south of the bypass, the land opens its throat to the wind.
uktark works in silence over the caribou, forelimbs braced, shoulders rolling as he peels hide from flesh with practiced economy. the kill was clean. the pelt will be good—thick, unscarred, winter-heavy. worth keeping.
but curing it is not his work. never has been.
he pauses only once, breath steaming as he lifts his head and scents the air. waiting. wondering if she will appear, and he can impress her once more.
@Fuyao.
his jaws click softly as he returns to the task, finishing the cut, freeing the hide in one broad pull. he drapes it over a stone to cool, marking the place with a low huff.
he is not done here.
when the work is finished, he turns south again, leaving the carcass for scavengers and the pelt for hands better suited than his.
he searches for her.

Truthfully, the soreness from the hunt days prior drives her north to where the plains make way for forest. The twin peaks of Grey Fangs watch from above, like two stony eyes who's gaze she finds difficult to escape, and even harder to resist.

For although her muscles scream, Fúyáo finds herself yearning to feel the killing rush once again. 

To the sound of running water she trots stiffly, wading until the stream's icy current laps at her unders and a sigh slips from her lips, grateful for the familiar relief it brings. 

A twitch of her nose accompanies a furrow of her brow, though her attention remains on the ripples below. Beast-blood and wolf; a scent unmistakably his. "You are here, Uktark. I can smell you." 

uktark steps out from the brush without haste, dark shape resolving from pine and shadow. his tail is held high, steady, a quiet claim of space rather than threat. river mist beads along his fur where he has crossed it before.
he stops a short distance from her, watching the stiffness in her stance, the way the cold soothes what the hunt left behind. his jaws click once, soft.
you smell good, princess. he says simply.
his gaze lifts to the treeline, then back to her. a question offered without pressure.
hunt again?

A scoff-laugh at his words. She smelled of river water, perhaps. Of pungent mud and wilderness that has now washed all trace of fragrant herbal incense from her pelt.

"And you smell like food." Emerging from the depths, her nose bumps his shoulder lightly before giving her pelt a shake at just the right angle to shower him with a smattering of droplets.

Hunt again? By now, Fúyáo knows their routine. "What you hungry for this time? Bird? Deer?" Her eyes drift back to the water, a smirk stretching her features. "Fish?"

uktark’s muzzle curls despite himself when the cold spray hits him. a low huff escapes his chest, half warning, half amusement, and he shifts just enough to keep from soaking fully through.
he follows her glance to the river, watching the current slide over stone and silt. fish move somewhere beneath it, unseen. not his kind of hunt.
no, he answers, flat and honest. i do not know how to catch fish.
his eyes return to her, the corner of his mouth still pulled upward, conceding the moment without yielding ground.
do you?

Out of the corner of her gaze she catches him staring at the water, watching the same silver shapes dance beneath the surface. Or was he? His curt response earns an incredulous side-eye.

In all his years of hunting, Uktark has not learnt to fish? It baffles her as much as it is a reality check of the situation; even the stone-faced man has his limits.

The princess wonders what more there are to discover as she replies: "Yes." Obviously. And then, almost as an afterthought. "Want to learn?"

uktark’s gaze stays on the river a moment longer, watching the quick flash of silver break and vanish. he huffs, quiet, not offended.
yes, he says at last.
his eyes slide back to her, steady, unembarrassed. you show me.