Whitebark Stream mathron

aw! probably a future trade thread if it goes well <3

After the talk of the caribou hunters, Astier drifted from the gathering like mist from the peaks, pale and soundless. Not to pursue the hunters, no, they were of little concern, but the beasts they followed: the caribou.
His den within the glacier's embrace was cold and barren, stripped of all comfort. A pelt would suffice; something to break the bite of the stone beneath him.
The wraith descended from the heights, following the river's path until it splintered into a quiet stream. There, he lingered, watchful and patient. His gaze, as cutting as the ice that birthed him, swept over the land in search of stray hooves and heavy breath. When none revealed themselves, he pressed onward.

the world had sharpened in these past days. pain no longer a constant knife at her throat, but a dull ache, an ever-present reminder of what had nearly been lost. she moved carefully now, wary of sudden shifts, of the way breath still came shallow if she pushed too far. the wound was healing, but slowly—too slowly. 

she had taken to walking again, though not far, not fast. to be still for too long was to let weakness settle in her bones, and she would not allow it. not when dawn had already come and gone, when blackfell had already left the den. 

her gaze cut through the trees, catching the pale wraith in his descent, tailing after some stale tracks. “hunting?” she breathed after him, close at his back now. her voice was still hoarse, not quite whole, but it carried.

<3

A hoarse yet feminine voice echoed behind him. Astier halted, head turning slightly to acknowledge the source. The shadow woman, draped in dark hues, trailed him with glacial eyes that mirrored the cold he himself carried. His gaze flicked briefly to her throat, where a raw, unhealed scar marred her flesh. She must be Gjalla; Blackfell’s wife. The woman for whom men would bleed and kingdoms would crumble; and what a woman she was!
Astier offered her a curt nod, „Caribou,” he murmured, the word slipping from his lips like frost, „I need a new pelt.”  A clarification, for he had no intention of acting without the Kaan's command. He observed her then, pale gaze lingering longer than  intended; that she survived such a wound was a testament to her strength. Yet, he would tread carefully; her body bore the weight of near death, and he would not be responsible for reopening her wound.
Shifting his attention back to the earth, he caught sight of a trail: „There,” hoof prints, uneven and dragging, a clear sign of a wounded or sickly one that drifted away from the herd. Lowering his muzzle, Astier inhaled the scent; fresh, the beast must be close.
Rising to his full height, he cast a sidelong glance at Gjalla. A silent question hung in the air between them, but he voiced nothing. Would she follow, or would she spare herself further harm? He would not press her, nor would he allow her to fall beside him in the hunt. The pale wraith moved forward with fluid grace, allowing her the choice to follow or not.

caribou. she had no need for another pelt, not now, but the thought of the hunt still stirred something deep within her—a yearning for movement, for purpose beyond mere survival. 

his eyes lingered on her throat, and she did not flinch from the scrutiny. let him look. let him see what had been done, what she had endured. her chin lifted, imperceptibly. she would not be reduced to a wound, to a body too fragile to stand.

her gaze followed his to the trail, the uneven press of hooves into the earth. wounded, sickly. easy prey. she could not hunt with him—not yet, but she would see how far she could go before her body betrayed her. "go," she nods, "i watch."

rolled a 2 side dice in the tabletop, sadly an unsuccessful attack for my boy :c

She would watch. As expected. Astier returned her nod, nothing more, then turned his focus to the task at hand. The caribou stood near the stream, its legs trembling beneath its own weight as it lowered its head to drink; frail. He could almost see the bones pressing against its hide, its breath uneven. And yet, he knew better than to assume it was weak. Even in sickness, caribou endured; even in their final moments, they fought.
His gaze traced the beast’s form; its tattered coat, the curve of its ribs, the sharp tines of its antlers. Those posed the only real threat. Precision would be key. A single misstep, and the brittle creature could lash out, goring him before it fell.
The scent of musk and dying flesh thickened in the frigid air as he began his approach, each movement deliberate, calculated. The silence of the tundra wrapped around him like a shroud, yet the snow, treacherous and unfaithful, cracked beneath his weight. The caribou’s ears flicked. Its head lifted.
So be it.
The wraith sprang, his muscles coiling, but the beast turned at the last moment, staggering away just as his jaws snapped at empty air. He landed hard, the cold biting into him as the caribou stumbled forward, regaining its balance. A low growl rumbled from his chest, anger simmering beneath his otherwise glacial composure. His breath curled in the air as he righted himself.
This would not happen again.
He flicked his gaze toward Gjalla, as if measuring her reaction, then returned his full attention to the caribou. The creature was winded but still standing, sides heaving, nostrils flaring. It knew it was being hunted now. Astier’s lips curled back. His next strike would not miss. He would see it dead.

periwinkle irises track movement, each shift in muscle and breath. she had expected him to succeed on the first strike—expected the kill to be swift and clean. but the caribou still stood, its body trembling yet stubborn, a thing that refused to die easily.

when he meets her eyes, she is glowering at him. you can do better. he would serve little use in darukaal otherwise. she saw the glint of something dangerous in him, something cold and restrained yet eager to sink its teeth into flesh. his failure did not seem to shake him, not outwardly, but she knew that fire when she saw it, for it lived in her, too.

loosely, she tails after him. wolf and snow meld into one as he gets further, but she follows. waiting to see if he would strike true this time. embarrassing, otherwise.

rolled a succesful attack!

The wraith did not waver. Her gaze lingered, expectant, laced with something that might have been reproach; but it was not her judgment that stoked the cold fire in his veins. No, it was his own; he had read the caribou’s movements, measured the moment, calculated the strike, and yet the beast remained standing. Barely; trembling, its ribs heaving, but standing nonetheless.
Unacceptable!
The bull’s breath came in broken huffs, mist curling from flared nostrils, the scent of blood thick in the cold air. It swayed, legs stiff with exhaustion, yet some stubborn fragment of life refused to release it. A foolish hunter might have lunged, desperate to erase the failure, reckless in pursuit of the kill. But Astier was no fool, even if his last strike made him seem so.
He moved, measured and quiet, a shadow upon the ice. No wasted steps, no unguarded breath. The world narrowed to the space between them; the failing beast and the predator that had already marked its fate. The moment stretched, taut as a bowstring. And then, he loosed; with the precision of a blade finding its mark, he struck. Muscles coiled, unleashing power like a storm breaking over stone. His fangs found the torn flesh of its flank, deepening the wound, twisting, pulling. The beast lurched, a strangled sound rasping from its throat, legs buckled.
Astier did not relent; he shifted his grip, jaws clamping around its throat, the thrumming pulse of life drumming beneath his teeth. A final struggle, a weakening tremor, then; stillness.