Firefly Glen in my veins like fire

@Raedwulf

qupirruatjuit stalks the herd from beneath as it grazes, each step a careful choice. she has not eaten since her exile nearly a week prior, and her body cries for nourishment. tongue sliding across blackened lips, she pursues her quarry with quiet intent.

a young bull, inexperienced, attempts boldly to sway the cows with bellows and grunts. a show of strength, of vigor. he will make a fine meal indeed.

the cows lift their heads and squeal, hooves striking the ground with muted thuds as they leave their man in the dust, dumbfounded. before the tuktu can turn to flee she is upon him, teeth assailing the flesh at his throat. he is reckless in his youth, panicked, and this serves qupir well-- for an older male would know to kick, to spear, to fight like hell.

raedwulf watches the single she-wolf's assault on the bull of this herd. there is a grunt of amusement at her boldness—but he too hungers. if she fails, the bull gets away and they both go hungry.
he goes down the slope in a crouch, flanking wide, ears pinned and eyes sharp. not for her—for the bull. it’s too big for one wolf, even if he's young. he knows that. she should too. maybe she gets the idea when the stag breaks free and whirls on her.
he grunts as he passes behind her, not slowing. instead of speaking, he nips at her—to warn her back. but it is not aggressive, like he might seek to steal her kill. it is a warning.
no bond, no trust, just instinct. wolves don’t leave a half-done kill.
he snaps at the bull’s flank, driving it into her path. hooves fly. a strike could break bone, but he’s already veering, already bracing for blood.

she loses her hold and is sent flying, blood spraying in an arc from her jaws as the bull frees itself. she rolls once, twice, back to her feet, feels the stag's breath hot on her neck as it whirls to face her with wild eyes.

a man behind her, silent as death itself and twice as audacious. he nips at her flank, then at the bull's, and she should wrestle him into the earth, carve her name into his bones until he is nothing. but her body speaks first, and she meets him with a calm curl of her lip instead. a warning and an agreement in one.

the stranger guides shared quarry toward her, and she veers away from a sharp hoof. it whistles past her ear and then she is airborne, lunging for the open wound at its throat and securing herself with large paws. she shreds but is not frenzied, releasing her hold once she feels the damage has been done. if he is a real man, he will help her secure the kill, and they will both feed. if he is a coward, he will stand behind and claim prowess.

qupir pants, licks dripping blood from her jaws, and begins to circle the weakened beast.

flank, neck, rear—he cuts angles, forces the bull to stumble where it once ruled the field. she gives him a look, all curled lip and fire. he gives nothing back, only letting the flame of his body do the speaking.
when she takes the throat again, he doesn’t hesitate. he drives forward, jaws sinking into the rear tendon with a sickening snap. the bull drops—hard. blood spurts.
there comes a loud bugle of agony as it struggles once more to get up, thrashing with remaining strength to fight off the circling hunters. there is a split second when brown eyes meet brown eyes, raedwulf seeing into the fight of the woman—then action again.
flesh and blood squelch as they bleed the stag, until he crumples in a thud, last breath visible like a cloud of smoke. raedwulf inhales adrenaline-fueled gasps for air to fill his lungs.

the mountain woman breathes, heavy, hackles raised, but makes no move closer to the stranger who felled her prize. she lowers her muzzle to the snow instead, lapping up great mouthfuls of blood until her thirst no longer plagues her. sparing him a brief glance, she considers for a moment the prospect of chasing him off. but they are equals in size, and hunger has sapped her strength. she will be lucky if he does not attempt to hoard it for himself.

"niriniq.". she barks the word under her breath, hardly sparing him a moment before she is muzzle deep, tearing at the beasts innards as if she has not eaten in weeks.

he watches, still as stone, breath steaming in thick bursts from flared nostrils. she laps at the blood from the snow. he does not interrupt; only watches, brown eyes full of sparking curiosity. the sight is gravely attractive, curling something within his stomach.
he had always a taste for the macabre.
þīn wǣstm is strang. this woman certainly cannot understand him, as he cannot understand her, but it does not stop him from speaking his truth. the compliment is accessorized by the faint wag of his tail.
when she does not bare fangs, he steps in. keeps to the hind flank. tears muscle with quiet precision. enjoying the feral truth of only meat and silence between two feasting hunters.

she can feel his eyes on her as she drinks,  does not acknowledge his attentions. he speaks gruffly in a language she cannot understand, but the gentle sway of his tail betrays positive intent. a compliment, perhaps, or a request.

he moves away from her to eat, and she is satisfied. audacious he may be, but he is not so foolish as to feed by her side. good. she returns to her feast in silence, but keeps in mind the memory of his strength. her season is fast approaching, and with it the drive to recreate what she has lost. a family. daughters. she gives him a sideward glance, assessing the thick coat and rippling muscle. she has never felt strongly for men, and she does not now. even her season bids her seek out the comfort of other women, and she is loath to ignore.

but this man...he can perhaps prove useful. and what is a man but a tool with which to provide? yes, if his strength proves lasting, she will have him. and the children will be hers, this time.

decision cemented, she returns again to her meal with swaying tail and gnashing teeth. not friendly, but neutral. he has earned lowered hackles and little more.

he eats without rush, stripping meat from the hind with practiced precision. no sounds but breath, bone, and blood.
he feels her eyes then—measuring, weighing. he does not meet them, but he knows what she’s thinking. wolves do not glance like that without cause. he laughs lowly in response, giving her his own look of knowing.
she can smell her scent. it is inherently masculine, the scent of a well-endowed woman; a warrior, furthermore. but her scent is not just that; it is twinged with the beginnings of something more sultry.
it is meant to attract him—and it works, but he is no ball-brained brute. women like this did not roll over and present themselves. he must work for the right to lay with her.
finished eating, the man settles upon muscled haunches, beginning to clean his forelimbs of the blood that stains them.
again, he speaks: ic wuna nēah þā dagas þe cumað. wit huntiað, etað, and campiað. þonne mæg hit bēon, ġe-liegan wit, ġeā? it is said mostly for him; to cement this decision with the universe. he feels he has figured this situation out—sees it for what it is.
or perhaps he is being daringly presumptuous? the woman would decide.

they finish their meal in pleasant silence, but the man makes no move to leave. nor does he move closer, remaining at a distance with interest shining in lidded brown eyes. he speaks again, and qupir knows only that he wants from her. if it is the same, they will share warmth when her season comes.

rather than answer that which she cannot understand, she turns away from him with a flick of her tail, tantalizing with a scent not yet ready. if he wishes to lay, he will not wander far from her. and perhaps, if he wishes to prove his worthiness to her now, they will spar. it is easiest to assess a man's worth by the way he moves during battle. he should be sleek, sharp like a blade but with measured effort.

"unatarit uvannik." she demonstrates her intent with prowling gait and attentive eyes. they have both eaten. they will fight, and then they will rest, and then they will fight again.

he rises when she does, muscles shifting beneath the weight of his thick coat. brown eyes follow her steps, sharp with understanding even if her tongue is foreign. þū wilt campian, he exhales in observation. then a jovial laugh. two thuds with his fist to his chest, the sound hollow and bold.
he does not bare teeth, does not posture. instead he begins to circle, steps light for a wolf his size. he moves like one born in the shield wall—close, direct, with no waste in motion. strength behind every limb, but held in check. tested.
ic cym. hæbbe þīn eġe gearu!
his tail lifts, not in threat, but challenge. he moves in, slow at first—waiting to see if she strikes like a beast, or dances like a killer.

the woman grins, a wild and untamed thing. the song of battle calls her forward. she whips past him, a flash of teeth grazing thick neck fur. a twist as he snaps his jaws in her direction, lunging for his flank instead. will he flee like a dog or fight like a man? above all, she searches in him for thought. ability to reason rather than rushing, as so many men are prone to do.

"takutinnga." she goads, tail raised and swiftly wagging.

his head turns with the snap, not the bite. teeth graze, but do not mark. her flash of motion, the grin, the fire—he reads it for what it is. not fury. not bloodlust. measure.
when she lunges, he pivots. not away—into her arc. shoulder lowered, braced, not to wound, but to halt. to test.
wīf cīest gefeoht? he rumbles, breath low, warm in the cold. his eyes lock with hers, unblinking. and then he moves—fast, but not reckless—testing her balance with a broad, sweeping shove of his shoulder.

his shoulder strikes her own, an attempt to knock her off her feet, but she does not shy from him. qupir meets his shoulder with her own and grunts, skidding backward as long nails firmly grasp the dirt. she gives him a nod, pleased, lowers her head and charges.

he is not larger than her by much, but he is broader, his muscles more prominent. she rams her shoulder into his chest, both to steal the breath from his lungs and bowl him over.

"arnatitut unataqattaravit." she croons, lips twitching. he cannot understand her, and thus the compliment is lost, but she means it nonetheless.

the force of her hit thunders through him. breath leaves his chest sharp, and he stumbles a step back, digging in with a grunt. not from pain—from surprise.
she’s strong. not reckless. not wild.
he steadies, eyes flicking across her form—measured, calculating. she fights not like an animal, but like one who knows. it earns something rare from him: a low, rough hum. approval.
he wipes a streak of spit from his snout with the back of his paw. then he lowers his stance, tail swaying, and charges again—this time aiming low, broad shoulder pressing forward like a shield.

she does not move aside, instead steeling herself to take the force of his hit. this is battle, yes, but more importantly it is a test of his strength. and she will feel it with her own body.

he slams into her, a wall of muscle, and his shoulder strikes the soft tissue of her throat. she stumbles backward and gags, a rough choking sound escaping her, but expressive green eyes betray satisfaction. jaws still parted in recuperation from his attack, she lunges for his lowered head. teeth aim to hold warm flesh, but not to cut.

when her season comes, she will fight him as if her life depends on it. but for now her attacks are measured, meant only to test.

his shoulder crashes into her throat, and he hears the ragged sound tear from her chest—but there is no retreat. no surrender. he sees it in her eyes. she takes the blow like a shield-maiden carved from stone.
good.
her teeth flash for him next, grazing warm fur near his crown. not deep. not meant to harm. his lip curls—not in anger, but understanding.
she wants the storm.
he gives it.
a low growl rumbles in his chest, and with one swift, brutal pivot, he hooks a thick foreleg behind hers and drives forward, shoulder to ribs.

she falls with a heavy thud, body bouncing stiffly. the mountain woman remains still, waits for him to declare his victory, and he does so with a firm paw pressed to her side. she allows her head to fall to the earth, an act of submission for his eyes alone.

but her muscles are taut, and her hackles bristle. dominance is as natural as breathing, as easy as bared teeth and lifted tail. to yield, to lose, it goes against her very nature. but for him, she lays her head. he has won.

"saqqittivunga."

he stands over her with breath held tight in his chest, the rise and fall of his ribs slow. his paw presses firm to her side and he feels the tension still alive beneath her skin, the storm not yet faded, only quieted.
he watches her with eyes sharp and unreadable, the weight of her submission felt like a crown pressed between them. he steps back slowly, gaze never leaving her, then dips his head once—for her.
þū eart heard. and mōdig. his tail sways once at his hocks, an unspoken respect.
he does not gloat. for why would he? he had only garnered the upper hand. the next, it might just as easily be her on top. he would not hate that.