Duskfire Glacier uppsaluk

continued of this for @Akavir and @Silvertongue : other members of darukaal welcome to make cameos.

faust moved with quiet certainty, his pace measured but unyielding as he led the two travelers back to darukaal’s camp. the wind still howled at their backs, but the worst of the storm had passed, leaving only the bitter cold and the long stretch of snow-packed land behind them.
the entrance to the caves loomed ahead, carved into the earth like the ribs of some ancient beast. inside, the air was thick with warmth, humid where the ice met the heat trapped within. the ground was packed with old stone and soft moss, and further in, nests had already been arranged, furs and dried grasses tucked into the hollows where wolves could rest.
on the way, faust veered toward one of the caches, his sharp eyes scanning the pile before he plucked two marmots from the frozen heap. he did not slow as he carried them back, only allowing the weight of the prey to hang loose in his jaws as he continued the trek.
once inside, he let them pass first, watching as they took in their surroundings. only then did he step forward, dropping the marmots with a dull thud against the cave floor.
what were you both doing so far north? his voice was level, steady, but edged with curiosity. there was always a reason wolves traveled this far. survival, exile, war. he wanted to know which it was.

phone post... hopefully it didn't autocorrect things to something weird...oof.

They followed--Akavir felt the tension roil in his very being, his eyes sharp upon the other as the significant presence of Silvertongue tethered him to the moment. The storm seemed to begin it's decline--drawing the man's ire with it. Had they simply remained, they likely would have been fine...

But one look to his weathered companion, whose silver fur glinted with ice and he knew he could not push her further. Would not push her further. She entrusted herself with him--despite no longer remembering him.

The intake of his breath was sharp and harsh--and he was thankful for the winters wind to mask it from his company.

When they were brought within, the irony of a frozen fortress' walls closing in upon them in much of the same manner as Akashingo's desert dry walls did was not lost upon him.

"Traveling home, while looking for my daughter," he provided with ease, feeling the melt of snow and ice from his own fur like a warm hug. He missed the Creek. "The storm turned us around more than I thought," he admitted, eyes turning from the bright face of Silvertongue to now study their host with open curiosity, albeit suspicion.

silvertongue was almost dead on her feet with exhaustion, but the appearance of the land this man claimed brought her wakened again. striations of rock gave way to caves, and the warmth here was quite high, almost hot after the ice howling. but the stranger was quick to regain her attention. directly he asked, a man who was used to receiving answers when he asked for them. akavir answered, and silvertongue tried to pull on all remembered skill of courtesan, raising her eyes to smile brightly at the stranger. "and now, thanks to you, we have survived its power. will you tell me the name of your home?" she asked, gazing around at the ledges, touching softly the cured furs; "it seems to be a place which holds a lot of strength."

a father searching for a daughter.
faust’s ears flicked.
did you find her? the question was blunt, direct, as all things with him were.
but he did not wait for the answer. his gaze shifted to the woman, the silver thing with bright eyes and a courtesan’s smile, studying his home with something between curiosity and calculation.
this is darukaal, he answered, his voice low, unhurried. the blood talon.
he let the words settle between them. the name carried weight—it was meant to. his pack was carved from the ice, from the bone of those who had come before. it was not a place built for the weak.
i am it's kaan. faust.

A blunt question—a blunt answer: “No.”

Had he trust in the man before him, he might hav relayed further information on his daughter—for now, Mae was kept close to his heart—she deserved no less.

Silvertongue, now, spoke, demanding the attention of both men. How could she not? Gleaming eyes of bright azure—the curve of a hip that once before she might have jutted out upon her question, had she held onto whom she had been prior.

He withheld a rumble—his eyes drifting from the bright of her gaze that now traced the other man to study him, considering. “Akavir,” he offered—withholding the grimace he felt upon introduction—Swiftcurrent Creek was not flowery.

It was what he preferred.

And then, a look to Silvertongue—unknowing just how she would introduce herself to their current host and potential savior of the moment.

"i am silvertongue," she said, taking her cue from akavir that they must stand beneath their own names. harsh was the realization that no longer could she append her connection with akashingo to the end of her own name. no longer was she their part, nor their portion. a creeping sense of melancholy washed through her, but practiced as she was, the silvered mask did not slip. "thank you for bringing us to darukaal, kaan faust," she said in fluting voice, offering a small bow that acknowledged his power. "what is the meaning of a blood talon?" at last she sat near, appreciating the rugged guardianship of the glacier's hold. any attackers would be hard-pressed to either fight darukaal outright, or siege them at all. she would have liked to see more of it, but held her tongue on that front, eyes light on faust as she moved her words instead to stroke softly his darkened ego.

gaze flickered between the pair, sharp and assessing. the glacier welcomes you, he side stepped to lean against the wall of the cave. as do i.
akavir stood firm, withholding, his words clipped and offering little. but it was the way he looked at the silver woman—silvertongue, as she called herself—that caught faust’s interest. there was something behind his eyes, a quiet heat simmering beneath the surface, restrained but present.
faust did not pry.
instead, he offered a brief, knowing smile.
blood talon are big game hunters, he answered simply, his voice even, unhurried. we hunt, provide, shelter.
his eyes lingered on silvertongue, unreadable. he did not miss the way she spoke, how carefully she measured her words, how easily she played to power. she was practiced. skilled. trained.
a woman like that did nothing without purpose.
but faust was a man who spoke plainly.
we do not conquer.
it was a truth carved into the bones of darukaal. they did not take what was not theirs, did not seek war for the sake of war. their claim was written in blood, but not in greed.
i am sorry that you did not find her. he looked to akavir then— unknowing of what it was like to bear the loss of a daughter, but he knew the weight of a missing sister more than most.

“Does it not matter that you have impressed me?”

The lilting voice was like a shadow in his mind now—the very same coquettish gleam cast within her alluring gaze, as Akavir reclined back, silent yet watchful, as the silver she-wolf sidled closer to their host of the moment. It was heart achingly nostalgic in certain ways, to see her as such—

—it fucking hurt the very heartbeat in his chest, if he were honest.

If he could usher the past away, he would. How many times had he tried to forget—

The man directed his words to him now—stirring the pale moonlit eyes of the ebony Mayfair to him once more, an incline given of his muzzle in quiet acknowledgement of the sentiment given. “As am I,” he noted, his tone quiet, his features reserved—unmoving. “But she has more than proven her resilience.”

A pause, then. “We live in the valley southward of here. I wasn’t aware a pack had made claim here.” … At least, not since Qeya River had staked claim nearby, though the Taiga was not a region he was as familiar with.

hunters. strong large warriors who settled in a land of ice but did not press their aim. silvertongue smiled wanly as the men began to speak. that would change for darukaal, she felt. men always wanted more. she saw little of women here, but perhaps they were elsewhere. the pelts were inviting, the hollow warm. it was not akashingo and despite the lack of gilding, she did not mind. darukaal was honest, which was more than she could have ever said for one of the egyptians. at last she settled upon the fine furs, uttering a small sound of contentment as she stretched lithe body against the grain of the leather, not watching akavir nor faust, but listening, listening even as exhaustion set in. darukaal's hospitality interested her. maybe it would be a boon to the creek wolf.

faust’s gaze flickered between them, taking their measure. akavir, dark and composed, carried the weight of something unspoken. silvertongue, on the other hand, made herself comfortable, stretching into the furs with an ease that suggested familiarity with places not her own. she was listening, even as she settled in, and faust did not miss it.
we are a new claim, he answered akavir first, voice even, unbothered. he did not expect outsiders to know of darukaal—not yet. but that would change.
eyes slid to silvertongue then, observing the way she fit herself into the space like she belonged there. a sharp contrast to the quiet, measured presence of her companion.
i would be open to trading with your kin, faust said at last, inclining his head slightly. there are fine hides here for bedding, herbs that my menders seek, however, are in the south. his tone did not suggest desperation, only practicality. a barter that might serve them both.
but it was late. he had spent enough nights among battle-hardened men to recognize when one was too weary to speak further. he would not press for details—not now.
but we can discuss on the morrow, he decided, shifting his weight back onto his haunches. and let you both rest.

sorry so short, omg

Silvertongue bid claim to the bed of fur before them—Akavir’s eyes drifting from the man only to study the features of her exhausted face for a swift moment before tracing back to their current host. A talk of trade—an extended olive branch.

The Mayfair was exhausted not just physically, but marrow deep, now. “Tomorrow, then,” he agreed with an amenable tilt of his head. “Thank you for offering us shelter and food.”