Duskfire Glacier tartok

@Iosef?

the wind bites as faust moves through the glacier, a hulking shadow against the endless white.
the cold is sharp, cutting through even his thick coat, but he doesn’t mind. it keeps him focused. keeps his mind from wandering to things he’d rather not think about.
iosef.
the name lingers in his head like a distant drumbeat. the man had vanished from his sight for too long, and faust didn’t like that. he didn’t trust those who disappeared without reason. men who slipped through cracks like ghosts—those were the ones you kept an eye on.
he lifts his head, nose twitching against the wind. faint traces of scent—stale, but still there. he presses forward, claws digging into packed snow as he follows the trail through the icefields, toward the edge of the glacier where the land gives way to jagged cliffs and frozen rivers.
iosef, he calls, voice a low rumble against the quiet. not demanding, not yet, but firm.
his breath fogs in the air as he waits. the wind howls through the barren landscape, but no answer comes immediately. his patience thins.
faust moves again, weaving between ice and stone, searching. if iosef was nearby, he’d find him. if he had wandered too far, faust would drag him back himself.

he was taught once, that a soldier was no good less he stay active. proactive. no use in letting potential waste away standing in formation, when wars were won by being ready. prepared. he hardly ever stopped—hardly rested, even. sleep was a frivolous luxury he couldn't afford. 

and so he moved. if faust was to claim this glacier, then iosef would intend to snuff any potential competition. he would make it clear this plot was claimed, and he'd make it even clearer that there would be no room for rats to infest it. 

he'd been trailing the scent of a lone wolf all morning. had prowled across the ice and snow, nose to the ground. a predator hunting its prey, and iosef never returned from a mission empty handed. 

it'd been a rogue male, scrappy and unfit to survive on this glacier. unfit to survive in darukaal. a sickness that needed snuffed, lest it spread like a plague. it was hardly a fight—and it left iosef disappointed, as he tore into the male with precision.

blood stained the snow, creating a viscous pool that flooded around his paws. it was bitter metallic down his throat, and yet it was an acquired taste. but then there's faust's call, and iosef is nothing if not an obedient soldier. 

the head of the rogue is removed with ease. the brute carries it back as a trophy and a medal. he'd prove his worth, in time, if this would not suffice. 

"i bring you head. like i said." he grumbled once he'd spat the head from his teeth, letting it roll to faust's paws. iosef's tongue rolls over his maw, a satisfied gleam.

faust’s gaze drops to the severed head, the blood still wet where it stains the snow. his expression remains unreadable, though there is something knowing in the way his brow lifts. he expected nothing less.
without hesitation, he bends to take the head between his own teeth, lifting it with a quiet grunt before stepping toward one of the prepared spikes. the motion is practiced, almost casual, as he drives the head down onto the sharpened wood. flesh gives way, and when he steps back, the rogue's lifeless eyes stare out over the ice.
a warning.
you've done well, faust mutters, voice low, rough. a rare compliment, but an earned one. his gaze flicks back to iosef, studying the way the blood still lingers on his muzzle, the satisfied gleam in his eye. a soldier through and through. he made a step closer, butting his forehead against iosef's. a mark of brotherhood, forged through blood.
faust exhales sharply, shaking his head once. we put this on the borders. make a statement. because there always was. the weak sought to settle where the strong had laid claim. they always thought they could take what wasn't theirs.
but this was darukaal. there would be no weakness here.

the head now placed upon a throne, a grim message to all who'd venture onto the glacier. the poor rogue now made an excellent example; weakness had no place in darukaal. and iosef would be the reaper to snuff it. 

he admired the grotesque display with a smirk. approval—he liked the way faust thinks. a worthy man to follow. a worthy king. iosef would be his hound, his shield, and his sword. "i will collect more. they will line the border." he stated with finality. there was more blood to be shed, there were more examples to be made. 

iosef welcomes the butt of heads with a low rumble and another nudge, as if testing faust's strength. brotherhood was something he didn't take lightly; to have a brother to fight beside, one to die for, was the highest honor. he would ensure the legacy faust will carve for them stay strong. 

"охотись со мной, брат." he rasped. "and this glacier will be yours."

faust did not need words to understand.
he could see it in iosef’s stance—the restless energy, the way his weight shifted, the way his muscles coiled like a bowstring waiting to be loosed. a man does not hold himself that way unless he craves the thrill of a hunt. the satisfaction of a kill.
he recognized it because he felt it, too.
a low chuff rumbled in his throat as he met iosef’s gaze, something knowing passing between them. without a word, he turned, broad shoulders rolling as he began to move. away from the border, away from the impaled skull, toward the open fields where the herds roamed.
a glance back, brief but certain. follow.
the tundra stretched before them, vast and unforgiving. out here, only the strong would thrive. faust intended to prove—once again—that they were the strongest.

he followed. obedient, structured—in short time faust has proven himself a worthy leader. a worthy general for iosef to pledge himself to. and now, a brother. one iosef would die defending, if needed be. after all, he wouldn't bend the knee to a false king. 

they trek side by side, dark outlines against the snow. unwavering and solid, strong and enduring. they would thrive here, and darukaal will grow into the strongest kingdom to grace this realm. 

iosef was eager to hunt alongside faust. to kill with him. and he was also curious, as to how the man he pledged himself too became so stalwart. "tell me where you come from." his tone held less bite. more inquisitive. searching, perhaps, for another thread that would tie them together.

faust’s gaze lingers on the snowy expanse ahead, his breath visible in the cold air as they move in steady unison. beside him, iosef’s question hums low—curious, not demanding.
he appreciates that.
north, faust answers after a beat, his voice rough, but not unkind. ice and snow. hard land. hard men. his jaw tightens faintly at the memories—the weight of his father’s rage, the sharpness of his mother’s grief, the absence of his siblings.
but he does not dwell. he glances sidelong at iosef, a subtle flicker of interest in his green eyes.
and you? he asks, a rare reciprocation. where did you learn to fight like that

"from the north, too. far north. place called sevka." he rumbled as they trekked. his tone held a certain bitterness. "born as a soldier, raised as one. they kill the weak." sevka was traitorous in his mind, but they'd raised the finest soldiers. 

harsh lands served to carve men out of stone. men that would stand through storms and battles and either fall a glorious death, or live to fight another day. it seems faust stemmed from the same background. 

"trained as a whelp," he continued gruffly. his first kill had come before he'd hit the age of one year old, and he remembers it as if it was yesterday. the adrenaline, the rush; the metallic taste of blood he'd from that day on craved to taste again. "been a soldier ever since. is all i know."

he swings his head forward, as the distant smell of a caribou grabs his attention. with a grunt, he pivots in his stride, heading towards the scent of big prey.

faust listened, catching every edge of iosef’s words as they moved together through the snow-blanketed expanse. the story was familiar, each piece fitting into a shape he recognized well. hard lands. hard men. it made sense.
sevka, he repeated, tasting the name on his tongue. he grunted lowly, an acknowledgment, perhaps even respect. sounds like home.
his gaze shifted forward, nostrils flaring as he, too, caught the scent of caribou on the wind. his body tensed, instincts awakening—the soldier and the hunter were often one and the same.
i was born in the north, too. hrafnvaengr. my...chieftain raised soldiers. i bled for him as a pup. there was no fondness in his voice. only fact.
his steps became more calculated as they closed the distance to the herd. he believed pain made men. broke the weak so they wouldn’t fail later.
faust’s lip curled slightly. he was wrong. pain doesn’t make men. it leaves them empty. we make ourselves men.
the scent thickened. he slowed, muscles coiling beneath his dark coat. his head turned slightly toward iosef.
we take the young one. drive it toward the ice. a flick of his tail. you with me, brother?

pain does not make men. part of iosef was inclined to disagree. suffering was apart of a rough life, and those who lived through rough lives would come out strong. but he mulled on it for a moment or two; was that what he was groomed to believe? that all the suffering and violence he and his brothers endured was for nothing in the end? 

it roused something fierce in his chest. blooming, gnawing. angry. there was a time where was a pup, before he was stolen from his mother and forced to fight, that he might have been soft, kind. less of a beast and more of a man.

that child is no longer apart of him. severed at the umbilical cord, forgotten to time. a part of him he'd never get back, and now he wasn't sure if given the opportunity he'd take it. 

there's no point in dwelling. not now. there's a kindredness now, between he and faust. men cut from the same cloth. it reaffirms that iosef would follow him. that he would obey, and that he would fight for darukaal. 

iosef's gaze slides back to faust. he grunts, the corners of his lips tugging into a fleeting smirk. "always, brother."

he'd been given his orders. without another word he's surging forward, breaking into a canter that'd soon morph into a sprint, as they neared the herd. the caribou's bellows of panic sliced through the frigid air, followed by the drum of their hooves hitting the ground.

the youngest calf is the slowest, and iosef pursues it with vengeance. he snaps at it's heels, shepherding it away from the rest and towards the icy shelf.

faust watches as iosef moves, swift and precise, a beast given purpose. the caribou scatter like wind-tossed leaves, the thunder of hooves shaking the frozen ground beneath them. he does not rush—does not need to. patience is his weapon, and he wields it well.
his eyes track iosef as he drives the calf toward the ice, cutting it from the herd like dead weight. good. clean. effective.
then faust moves.
his muscles coil, and in a single breath, he surges forward. his stride is long, purposeful, every motion calculated. he does not snap, does not waste his breath on wild snarls. no, he is silent, swift—death given shape.
the calf stumbles, floundering as the ice betrays it. a mistake. its last. faust is upon it in an instant.
his teeth sink deep. flesh gives. the bellowing wail of the dying calf fills the cold air, but faust does not linger in its suffering. he jerks, hard, and the sound cuts off—silence, save for the heavy pant of breath.
blood stains the snow.

blood rushes to his ears, hot and searing inside his veins. the pounding of his heart is strong and wild, mingling with harsh breaths and wilder snarls. startling the calf, to keep it moving forward. the thrill of the hunt is what drives him. his vision is tunneled; solely, keenly focused on his prey. the urge to pounce and crush it beneath his weight, to sink his teeth into flesh and tear was strong. but not stronger than the desire to witness faust.

a good soldier knows when to stall, when to obey. so when the calf slips, its hooves slick on the ice, he reigns himself back with control barely contained. a thread ready to snap; a bomb ready to explode. his breaths are heavy and labored, thick plumes of his exhaust unfurling from parted jaws. his tail lashes with energy and adrenaline he wishes to unleash. faust is quicker; honed, lethal. his baskaan's ferocity with welcomed with an appreciative growl as the man meets the calf with his jaws.

it's cry fills the air, cutting through the silence of the tundra. blood stains the snow crimson, and iosef wishes there was more. a pool of it to revel in. his muscles stay tensed, even after faust snaps the calf's neck. its limbs thrash against ice before it finally succumbs and lays still. "you hunt well, brother. it was an honor to witness." he rasps between pants.

faust stood over the kill, breath heaving, the scent of blood thick in the air. the calf had fought, but not well enough. nothing did, not against him.
he released his grip, lifting his head as the last twitches of life faded beneath his paws. gold-green eyes flicked to iosef, watching the way his muscles still coiled with the heat of the hunt, the way his breaths came quick, hungry.
you held back. his voice was rough, but not unkind. good. control makes the kill cleaner.
his tongue flicked against his teeth, tasting the iron that still lingered there. the rush of it had not yet left his veins, the thrill of the hunt still humming beneath his skin.
he looked at iosef then, the glint in his eyes sharp, measuring.
it’s a waste to revel in blood that’s already spilled. a pause. a knowing smirk. but next time, you take the kill.
he stepped back, gesturing to the calf with a flick of his muzzle. come. we drag it home.

the praise soothed the beast inside of him, thrashing against the bars of its cage that were his ribs. he grunts and shakes the adrenaline off. lets the tension slowly ease from his muscles. he'd have plenty of opportunity to make the kill later—for now, they bask in their successful hunt. 

"next time, we hunt something bigger." he rivaled with a murmur. if he were to spill blood, he wanted it more significant than just a yearling caribou. upon his baskaan's orders, he steps closer to lean down and snatch a frail limb between his jaws. it threatens to splinter from the pressure. 

dragging it back toward darukaal's heart. to feed the people, to keep them strong.

fade w/ your next post?

faust rolled his shoulders, the heat of the hunt still simmering beneath his skin. the calf had been young, but it was a kill, a victory, a meal for the pack. and that was what mattered.
bigger, he echoed, a rough exhale through his nose. stronger.
his gaze flicked to iosef, sharp and approving as his second took hold of the ox’s frail limb. they moved in tandem, dragging the carcass back toward darukaal’s heart, where it would be divided among their own.
next time, we take down something worthy of a song. his voice was low, steady, but there was a promise in it. a challenge.
they would hunt again. they would kill again. and the ice would drink deep of their victories.