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.

i don't even think i know your name.

tell it true: does that stop most men?

atoztli regards him with something hidden in her gaze. did he find her repulsive? there was something in his tone and now that she heard it she felt compelled to hook a finger in it - to explore it to its full depth.

she orients the tail towards him, rising then and coming to stand just close enough that the heat from both their bodies resonates between the nip of winter air. would you like such an opportunity?

I guess not, he replied simply, his tone even but distant, as if the question hadn’t stirred much within him.

At her next words, his eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger but in sharp appraisal. He tilted his head, considering her, before he spoke again. I don’t take women, he said, his voice low, deliberate, unless they want to be taken.

Was she asking him to? Was she prodding at him like a wasp in a bees hive? So plainly vulnerable, Qvasir wasn't expecting such a lewd confrontation. He had only offered her a den, now, she offered the divot between her hips.

Do you want that?

im on the edge of my seat!

he's different then the men she and mictec have grown to know. 

noble. distant, perhaps - but where is that hungry machismo, where is the sense of entitlement and ownership that commands them to bend their women over and subdue them?

this new world and its new customs! atoztli savors the simmering heat between their bodies, tasting blood distant on the tip of her tongue. she misses the temple. she misses the warmth of her coven, the rich blood of their tithes, and the thrumming, churning bodies of the devoted --

but there is only this man now, and the cold, empty place he's carved into the earth.

do you?

With deliberate slowness, a predator savoring the tension rather than rushing to break it. His nose brushed against the curve of her neck, the heat radiating from her spine intoxicating in the frigid air.

He breathed deeply, his voice low and firm, a single word falling from his lips. No.

The moment hung heavy, charged with unspoken promise, before he pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his expression unreadable but for the faintest flicker of something dangerous in his eyes.

You are to be earned. he said, his tone steady but weighted, each word delivered with intention.

wise man, for atoztli's eyes lay lingering on the blood stirring just beneath his temple --

she pulls back with a pleased smile, longing after the loss of warmth their close bodies afforded.

a reckoning of promise in his dangerlit gaze. intrigue wraps its sharp grip around the priestess, who felt her blood elevated to a heightened thrum under the burn of his cool gaze.

then i wait to see you prove yourself worthy.

picking up the severed tail, atoztli leaves the fox there in the ruined earth. a gift -- or a totem, perhaps -- of what promise lingers between them.

He stepped forward, claiming the fox where she had left it, his movements deliberate and commanding.

Without hesitation, he began to skin the creature, his claws working methodically as he stripped the fur with practiced precision. The cold air carried the scent of blood as he exposed the flesh beneath, a quiet intensity marking each of his actions.

When the work was done, Qvasir lowered his head and tore into the fox’s insides, his teeth sinking into the warm meat with primal purpose. He ate without ceremony, his focus unbroken, a show of dominance and acceptance of her challenge.

When he finally straightened, the blood on his jaws and the dark glimmer in his eye carried the answer she sought. He would impress her. That is what men do.

thank you for the thread omg...