Duskfire Glacier no rest for the wicked

aw! wanting to start his merc trade. someone come fight him...

the border is where he spent most early mornings. rest did not come easy to the soldier, and often he neglected it. chose to busy himself instead, such as continuing his unspoken mission to hunt down rogues that were foolish enough to step within darukaal's territory. damned the moment they tainted the soil with their weakness. 

it was often too, that he needed to sate the need for bloodshed. it was a sickness within him, coiling around his mind and inking into his bones, whispering grim desires in his ears. but the weak rogues ever hardly put up a worthy fight. they fell as quickly as they came, left to sputter beneath the soldier's paws. 

the death rattle that'd trickle from their throats was music to his ears, but it wasn't enough to sate that itch. their heads would come easy; with a gruesome pop, perhaps some resistance before flesh tore from bone and the head was his to place upon a pike. 

faust mentioned he wished to have the borders lined with them, and so iosef would provide. 

but there was a glint in his eyes still. an itch that couldn't be scratched. he wanted a true fight; a worthy opponent.

fenris knew men like him.

he had fought them, bled with them, bled because of them. men who found purpose in death, who saw weakness as a sickness to be culled. he had met them in battle, walked among them in hrafnvaengr, called some brother. it was merely a matter of opinion.

iosef carried the scent of blood, though none fresh. he had been proactive in patrolling their borders.

fenris watched him from where he stood, still as stone, breath slow against the cold. he had seen the bodies. the pikes. the work of a man who found satisfaction in the breaking of others. there was no question that he was useful.

only that he was hungry.

the corpse of the rogue lay to rot within the snow; he would not move it. let it be further warning that trespassing without cause would not be tolerated. not while he was on his routes. they were mapped well; a day long journey along the borders. to cull the weak that may threaten to dismantle what they were trying to build. 

there's movement to his flank. he turns with a huff, raising his head to stare at a man. unfamiliar, but he carried the scent of faust. even carried a hint of resemblance. faust hadn't spoken of any kin—but it did not matter. 

he would test this brother. see if he's as strong as their baskaan. he's strong, too, and his lips curl into a fleeting, grim smile. a worthy opponent. finally. 

"you," he rasped. tongue curls over his maw to clean blood, though he's hoping more would be spilled soon. whether it was his own or this man's. "look like faust. but are you strong like him?" 

not a direct threat, but certainly an invitation.

this man leaves a ruin upon the ground. a ruin of flesh and bone, slack-jawed in the snow. fenris' eyes graze the body momentarily, then eyes flicker upwards to meet his gaze.

he is large, thick with the scent of blood and sweat, his mouth curling with something that is not quite a snarl, not quite a grin. fenris meets his gaze without hesitation, eyes like embers beneath the storm-heavy sky.

he listens and waits. then—

faust is strong, he agrees with a smile that rings true and genuine. there is naught a thing deceitful about fenris, a man true to himself and those around him. his head tilts, a slow, considering motion. i do not compare.

a breath curls from his nose.

come then.

there is no posturing nor any grand display. only the way his weight shifts, muscles coiling beneath thick fur as he invites the man to come at him.

the man does not lie. he smiles, and it's not tight-lipped like iosef's. it irks him, how genuine it is. it does not sit with him right. the man is easy to roll over and accept he is not held to Faust's standards. while most would find it charming, iosef finds it complacent. weak. 

but, he's learned not to judge a man's strength by words only. they were deceiving. he's hoping the man is more than pleasant smiles; he's hoping there's a bite beneath that charm. 

"we will see." is all he grunts before he's moving. with a quickness that belies his heft, he's barreling at the man's front. jaws parted, spittle freeing from his gums. only, at the last moment, to veer to the right. 

leaning down, he snaps at a limb. testing the man. searching for weakness. feigning a blow, as he preferred to play with his kills first.

the man lunges, quick despite his size, a beast of blood and brutality. jaws part, teeth slick with spit—direct, forceful.

his ears flick back. a heartbeat. then—motion. his own fangs flash in answer, a quick, cutting.

iosef veers, snapping low. fenris moves with him, shifting his weight in a sharp pivot, letting the bite graze past muscle instead of sinking deep. his own fangs flash, quick as the flick of a dagger, aiming for the thick fur at iosef’s nape.

it is a dance he knows well. the dance of battle. fiercely intimate. to fenris: more than bloodshed. more than carnage. he has danced it the whole of his life, relentlessly trained by a cruel father; the same cruelty that forged his older brother. they came out better for it. but fenris’ heart was not led by battle-rage. it spoke of something tempered, something calm like before the storm.

when he moves, it is not with the brutish effort seen in iosef. his pawsteps are featherlight, despite a herculean mass; the sinew of his body hidden beneath a shaggy pelt rippling healthily. teetering low beyond the edge of senseless violence, that he senses in the man he now
faces.