Silver Moraine i am a result

@Jora

huge paws split black ice. a crunching underfoot that he has long since learned to navigate without much trouble. the icy, snow-less peaks of the black crags had been detrimental—growing up as a young boy had taught him much. how to carry his weight upon the ice, how to avoid slipping and meeting his maker.

thoughts drifted. they led him away from the plains of qeya river and into the length of the moraine, where he maneuvered cautiously. as if walking on eggshells, his head lifted, his tail a striking banner against the pale outcrop of the icy drift. scents washed past.

one stuck out. familiar... it grated upon him. his shoulders tense, rolling as he changes his trajectory, walking down the length of the moraine with renewed purpose. crimson eyes breaking the lingering, bleak fog that hung over the land.

the wind carried scents in slow waves, twisting and fading before they settled. most were unremarkable, claimed by the ever-shifting tundra. but one—one stood out like a thorn beneath her skin.

smoke and cedar. it was familiar, unmistakable. she did not need to see him to know, not when his scent pressed into her nose.

her lips curled into a fond half-smile, and her pace quickened to a steady trot. she met the fog head-on as she follows the trail.

"blackfell," she murmured, more to the wind than to herself, letting the name shape itself on her tongue.

he does not stop walking, though his ears tilt, though something sharpens in his chest.

he knows before he sees.

blackfell moves through the mist, slow, steady, but his breath is deeper now. he has not seen her in—how long? too long.

his name comes on the wind, barely more than a whisper, but he hears it.

he halts. turns.

jora.

his legs move before thought can catch up, before distance can mock him any longer.

when he reaches her, he pulls her in—tight, unyielding, crushing in the way only blood can be.

jóra stands still as he closes the distance. she had always known he'd come for her, find her. she is pleased today is the day.

his arms encircle her, and she doesn't fight it. instead, she merely buries her nose into his scuff and breathes him in. an easy, familiar grin splits her maw.

“it has been too long, brother,” she rasps, closing her eyes for a heartbeat before she leans back, eyes sharp as ever. ”did you miss me?”

blackfell holds her tight, pressing his nose against her crown while he says nothing, only breathes her in—smoke and pine, the scent of home.

of what was left of it. it brings a stinging sorrow to conquer the contents of his chest.

but now, of all times, he will not falter. he draws back, letting his grip fall free of his sister, and rasps: it has, crimson eyes never leaving hers all the while. she questions whether he missed her and he knows the answer is easy: yes.

no, it is a lie, deadpan as they come—but she will see it for what it is as the way his lips twitch betrays him. his head tilts, gaze flicking over her as if assessing for damage. you have kept yourself in one piece. i am almost impressed.

her brother is an anchor, through and through. a reminder of things both lost and fiercely held onto. a small, dry laugh escapes her, bitter and knowing. "you always were a terrible liar," the scent of home lingers between them, sweet and sorrowful, and she inhales it like a comfort and a curse all at once.

when he assesses her—his eyes flicking over her with that sharp, scrutinizing gaze—she stands her ground, not moving an inch.

"one piece?" she repeats, her voice laced with dark humor, but her lips curl upward in a hint of a grin, sharp as ever. "i’m surprised you even recognize me."

she steps back slightly, giving him a slow once-over. "i’ve made my own way. and so have you, it seems,"

blackfell snorts. “then you must be blind, sister. you have not changed a bit.”

but that isn't all true, is it? they have all changed, shaped by time and circumstance, by the worlds they had chosen—or been forced—to make for themselves. but he looks her over, taking her in as if trying to memorize her all over again. he laughs at her comment, a sound coming from his belly. “you have always been funny, sister. i was sure i’d find you dead in a ditch by now.”

he does not have to say he is glad to see her standing before him. she has always known how to read between his words. he tilts his head, studying her one last time before he exhales through his nose, as if resigning himself to something inevitable.

“come, then." an arm tossed around her shoulder. "if you are still standing, you might as well tell me what the hell you’ve been doing with yourself.”

jóra scoffs, sharp and humorless, though her eyes glint with something fond. "and you must be delusional," she retorts, her chin lifting just slightly. "i’ve changed plenty."

it's a lie, and they both know it. she can feel it in the way his gaze holds her, as if trying to unearth something lost beneath the weight of time. a part of her wants to sneer at it—to snarl, stop looking at me like that, but she doesn’t. instead, she stands there and bears it, and when his laugh erupts, deep and full from his chest, she feels the faintest pull of warmth beneath her ribs.

"hah!" Her own laugh breaks from bark of disbelief, though her smile is barbed. "a ditch, blackfell? you wound me," she tilts her head, eyes narrowing in mock offense. "as if. we both know i'd have made a fine corpse in a mountain crevice, at the very least."

when his arm hooks around her, rough and heavy like old times. she huffs a laugh and leans into the weight, her shoulder bumping his ribcage. "what the hell do you think I’ve been doing?" she drawled, gaze flicking to the horizon as they began to walk. "surviving. pissing off strangers. meeting pretty women. keeping my head attached to my neck—though it was a close thing once or twice."

a pause, and then, low and wry, "so, you know. same as you, i'm sure."

blackfell chuckles, low, rough—an amused rumble deep in his chest. he bumps her gently again, shoulder firm against hers, easy as breathing. the bitterness softens a fraction, edges worn smooth by the familiarity of her weight beside him.
ah, i see. wasting your time. what is new?
his voice is teasing, but crimson eyes glint with approval. she is still jóra—sharp-tongued, unbreakable. his sister, the only true equal he’d ever known.
he leads them forward, comfortable silence settling like snowfall between them. after a beat, he speaks again, voice quieter.
so you claim no home, then?

jóra snorts, rolling her eyes. "wasting my time?" she echoes, feigning offense. "i'm wounded to know you think so lowly of me, brother. i’ll have you know, i’m a very productive nuisance." her lips twitch, sharp with amusement, but beneath it, there’s something steadier—unspoken but understood.

his next words come softer, quieter, and for a moment, she doesn’t answer.

then, finally, "darukaal." the name rolls off her tongue with an air of finality, dull yellow eyes flicking toward him as if to gauge his reaction. "our cousin leads it. faust."

she tilts her head slightly, as if considering. "upon a glacier not far from here, bitter and cold." her gaze lingers on him for a beat longer before she exhales, turning her eyes back to the path ahead. "what of you?"

you’re always productive—just rarely in ways that help anyone but yourself. his tone is dry, but there’s a flick of warmth beneath the grit. only jóra ever earned that.
when she speaks the name of @Faust, his ears twitch. the edge of his expression turns colder. he huffs.
figures. the bastard’s always been good at crawling out of the dirt. a pause. i've seen him. spoken to him.
he starts to walk again, slow through the snow, tail low and swaying behind him. saatsine’s where i am now. the highlands have grown soft. he leaves any specific details out. best not to damper his reunion with his sister by sharing his deepest, darkest troubles.

"exactly," jóra says with a grin far too smug for the likes of her, "what’s the point in helping others if you can’t help yourself first?" jest, mostly, but there is truth to it. she’s always been ready to bare her teeth for what she wants—and she has.

the change in his face doesn’t go unnoticed. at the mention of faust, she sees the way his expression cools, the twitch in his ears, narrowing eyes. her own gaze sharpens. curious. "you’ve seen him," she echoes, "a lovely reunion, i'm sure."

he is among saatsine, now. funny. "did the cold finally get to you?" she hums, disbelief curling her lips upward. it doesn’t quite land the way she wants—there's something missing in his words, something unsaid that she can feel like a crack beneath thin ice.

"sounds like we’ve both been crawling," she says finally, her voice softer now.