Golden Glade mustgrave

AW but maybe @Ātoztli :D?

The ground was frozen, resisting his efforts with a stubbornness that mirrored his own. Qvasir stood over a partially dug hole, his massive paws caked with soil and frost. His breath curled into the cold air, a pale mist against the backdrop of a gray winter sky. The task was grueling, but it suited him—mindless, methodical, and necessary.

He drove his claws into the dirt again, tearing at the packed earth with a quiet determination. Each strike was deliberate, his strength unyielding as he widened and deepened the hollow. The dens would need to be large enough to shelter the pack and secure enough to protect them from the biting winds of winter.

Pausing, Qvasir straightened, his jade eyes scanning the clearing. The forest around him was silent save for the occasional rustle of branches in the breeze. His ears twitched at the faint sound of birds overhead, a reminder that life continued even in the dead of winter.

she returns with kills in tow: redglint fur of fox, the limp form of a winter hare.

nearby sounds of rough earth being moved draw her in. mictec's man, the bruised color of distant mountains shouldered by winter storms.

her gaze travels to the furrows. many dug over the span of hours.

she places down her kill and rests a paw upon them, gaze turning to him in silent inquiry. what is the purpose of such things?

Qvasir paused in his work, the heavy scent of turned earth mingling with the crisp bite of winter air. His powerful shoulders shifted as he straightened, dark fur dusted with soil. The sound of her approach had not gone unnoticed, nor had the faint, iron-tinged aroma of her kill.

He mether gaze, his own steady and impassive, though the faintest nod of acknowledgment passed between them. His voice, low and rumbling, broke the quiet.

I’m digging dens, he said simply, his tone carrying the weight of purpose. His gaze flicked briefly to the furrows, their edges neat despite the rawness of the task. Mictec’s orders.

There was no elaboration—none was needed. His actions spoke to his devotion, each mound of unearthed soil a testament to his role. He returned to the task without further ceremony, claws biting into the earth with deliberate strength.

the bite of his gaze held her like impassive stone: veins of ice fleck their surface. atoztli wonders if he looks at all of them that way.

she looks back to the burrows. mictec's orders. each gouge a neat scar against the frost-snared earth. hours of careful, dedicated work.

residual warmth pulsing between her paw and the kills. taking the fox, she bites deep and strips the tail from it.

spitting tufts of red fur between teeth, she points. for us all?

Golden pool gaze turned to her, the weight of it steady and unflinching. He nodded once, a sharp and deliberate motion.

Yes, he replied, his tone even, carrying no judgment. For all of us.

His eyes flicked to the fox she had chosen, lingering for a moment before returning to her. Would you like to pick your favorite? he asked, the words calm, tongue clicking to the variety he had done. He stood as still as stone, wondering what kind of hovel she would choose.

he looks at her, gaze long and cool. and then his gaze falls to the fox, torn now to two pieces between her teeth.

the tail makes good on protective spells. a tuft of russet fur buried with three sticks and the radula of a racoon brought good luck. many uses for this fox.

many uses for him, too.

molten fire for met the man's unflinching coolness. the faintest flicker of humor lingering in the priestess' blood-black eyes. bedfellows? do you typically move this fast?

He raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching into something between amusement and incredulity. A short, dry laugh escaped him, the sound barely more than a scoff. That wasn't... me trying to sleep with you, he said evenly, his tone laced with faint derision.

His gaze flicked back to the fox, now split in two between her teeth, before returning to meet her dark, humor-tinged eyes. After a pause, his head tilted slightly, his expression calm but faintly curious. I don't even think I know your name.

The words were pointed but not unkind, leaving the air between them charged with quiet tension and unspoken questions.