Silver Moraine kill

She continued to range. The scraps from the morning hardly sated her. A peak came into view in the distance; Tikigâk forged toward it, long-legged strides carrying her with ease toward the Moraine. 

Tikigâk, all the while, searched with her nose for another meal—still she kept each of her senses attuned to her surroundings.

Many scents were then carried to her as she neared the edge of one’s claim; she halted midstride for the briefest of moments, and then turned to range a good distance away from the marked land. She would need to move on, she knew.

the wind brought her before he saw her. faint, unfamiliar. not darukaal. not saatsine. not anyone who belonged to the glacier or its shadow.
faust moved with quiet certainty, his steps deliberate over the snow-packed earth until the pale figure sharpened in his view. a woman, long-limbed, carved lean by winter’s teeth. he watched her from a short distance, studying the careful way she skirted the borders. smart. respectful. but he didn’t trust it.
his voice cut through the cold, low and edged with steel.
you’re close enough.
he came to stand with a stillness that carried weight, emerald eyes fixed on her with the scrutiny of a man who had seen too much taken from him already.
what do you seek out here?
and though there was no immediate threat in his stance, there was no welcome, either. just the glacier at his back, and the expectation she’d give him reason enough to let her linger.

Another presence. Her hackles lifted slowly, standing sharp and rigid—her eyes snapped toward the man who matched her in physique. Her gaze passed over him, noting the subtle interruptions in the pattern of his furs that revealed to her his strength for the scars that caused such a thing. Subtle, easy to miss for those not of their ilk. He, too, might note the same of her. Perhaps not, though; she was not so well-kept as he, furs windswept and wild. Nothing marked her face, yet, either. 

Unreadable though she was, she dipped her head a measure in respect for his place here. His scent was one of the strongest—either he was this packs most diligent guardian, or its leader. 

His question was heard, and her dull gaze shifted from him to the path she intended to take—no man’s land. She did not intend to trespass, nor come any closer when uninvited. Nor did she anticipate the latter to transpire. This one was guarded.

She would not press her luck. What did she seek out here? Most immediately, food, and then she shakes out the tension from her furs, yawning in a way to reveal she was no harm to him. Food, but she would not steal from pack. Tikigâk respected borders, not so dimwitted as to cross them. 

She gestured to her path—indicating she would not cross into his land. This is the way that I walk, she revealed. She did not anticipate receiving his trust, but the blunt woman had no reason not to provide him with her candor. She took a step in that direction, and then another as she heeded the impressive man with an ear that turned to him.

Would he accompany her across the span of his borders, or let her go?

his gaze roved over her, steady, unshaken. the lift of his tail remained high, though his stance eased as she showed her respect. large. untamed. a woman of the ice and wind. his nose found her neck, slow and unapologetic, drawing in the cold scent of her path, the coarse wildness she carried from miles beyond his claim.
she did not seek to steal. good.
he snorted softly, as if amused by her honesty, by the way she made no show of submission nor threat. only purpose. food. survival.
you walk the right way, faust rumbled, gravel rough, and his gaze shifted toward the expanse beyond, where the drifts grew deep and the air thinned. but you'll go hungry, out there. his chin tilted toward the heart of the glacier. the herds are here.
he stepped past her shoulder, as if to test whether she'd follow or turn away. come, he invited, casting a glance back over the rugged line of his scarred muzzle. hunt with me. show me if you're worthy of blood talon herds.
and just like that, without ceremony, without demand—only the quiet weight of his confidence—he turned, expecting her at his side.

Ordinarily, Tikigâk might have proceeded on to investigate—but she was hungry, and this was a wolf who knew these lands better than she did then. It was winter; if there was a herd within his claim, and he invited her to hunt with him, it would only be a fool that might ignore such an opportunity. 

There was no denying she was, in addition to this, a food motivated being. Tikigâk regarded him once more, noting now the power in his step. His scars affected none of his movements; none of them were so deep as to affect him physically. 

Tikigâk turned to prowl very nearly directly alongside him, but being a stranger in his home she did not presume to occupy that space. For all of her gargantuan height, something they shared, she kept her head level with his shoulder. If permitted, she would sniff the furs there as they moved to learn more of him, of his status.

His offer was not the way of Tartok who cared only for their own, and so she believed he was no wolf of their branches—but perhaps he might wish, like herself, to become. 

Or perhaps he was, and he recognized in her what she recognized in him. Some things were that simple. To hunt with a kill-brother or kill-sister was as good a way as any to bring one into their fold. 

Tikigâk mulled over this in a comfortable silence, breath rolling out in draconian plumes as she exhaled slowly. Her gaze took in the new surroundings, mapping out the terrain they traversed as her mind turned to the tactical component of their hunt. She had never before hunted upon a glacier, though he had only gestured that way—perhaps that was not the space the herd occupied. 

She would follow the man’s lead, listening to him as they walked on the path he guided them across.

stay close, faust rumbled, voice low and sure as they moved, his steps carving deep lines into the snow. her shadow fell alongside his—big, dark, silent. he liked that. no needless words. just movement. purpose.
the wind shifted. he raised his nose, tasting the air. reindeer. ahead. a tilt of his head beckoned her forward, slow, careful, as they crested a rise where the ice broke open into rolling flats. the herd was there, small but strong. good meat.
he glanced sidelong to her as she drew near, noting the way she moved, the respectful drop of her head beside him. smart. respectful. his shoulder brushed hers as they prowled, quiet. she wasn’t a saatsine wolf, he could smell that much, but she had the makings of something worth keeping around.
i'll cut them from the left. force them downwind. his pale eyes slid to hers, sharp, testing. you take the flank. push them to the ice.
a pause, heavy with unspoken expectation.
we kill together, faust said, as if it was already decided. because to him, it was.
and without another word, he moved, a dark force cutting through the snow toward the herd.

She heeded him, having no plan to stray from his side then. It was practical, and it would show to any onlooker that she traveled with one of their own as to not provoke undue aggression. Tikigâk had killed many a trespasser for that act alone, and could fault no other for such a response. 

The large woman mirrors his movement, sampling the wind—she grunted in affirmation, smelling them. The climb was a sport that she enjoyed; she was a woman born of the mountains, and so she relished this moment where they two made their swift yet steady ascent, feeling the pleasant burn of her muscles working as they rippled beneath her thick winter fur. 

Her gaze turned to him, watching how surely he navigated his home—his pace might be another kindness, as he did not seem to be exerting himself any. As his furs brushed against her own, Tikigâk looked out toward the herd that came into view as they rose above the land that they had scaled. 

Tikigâk listened to his direction, nodding—and as he suggested that they two kill together, her gaze returned to him. Few words had much meaning to her, but these ones did; did he understand the weight of them? 

It felt like the beginning of something, but Tikigâk was much too simple of a woman to understand. Levelly, she answered, we kill together. 

She would see his strength; he would see hers. 

As he moved, so too did she—after her eyes found the ice in which she would divert the creatures to. Tikigâk drove ahead, carving her own path. She heard the bellowing of the herd, the thundering of their hooves—the work that the dark man did taking effect, no doubt. Tikigâk erupted forth from snow to herd them in the direction of the ice. It only took one, younger than the rest perhaps, to stir them to move in a flurry of panic. Tikigâk kept her pace at an easy jog still keeping to their flank, rushing in to snap her fangs and force their path so that it would remain aligned with the directive she had been given. 

They were almost there, and her gaze alighted upon a herd member that stumbled. Their mark, perhaps.

faust’s ears flicked, catching the heavy rhythm of hooves scattering like stones across the ice-packed earth. his gaze swept over the bodies, quick and calculating, until it landed on the faltering figure—the weak one, the easy one. his chin lifted in a silent command, the faintest nod sent toward tikigâk as his breath huffed out in a cloud.
there, was all he rumbled, low and certain. their target was chosen.
he moved like water over stone, sure-footed, shoulders rolling with each bound as he carved along the edge of the herd, pressing their quarry tighter into the trap. he trusted her flank, trusted her strength without question—a rare thing, and not gifted lightly. but she held her ground, kept pace, her own precision as honed as the edge of a blade.
and so they worked. two shadows circling, closing in. faust drove from behind, tightening the noose while she surged forward to steer. the stumbling beast tripped again, and his pulse sharpened. nearly.
keep it there, he growled beneath his breath, more to himself than her, though he knew she’d hear. we end it clean.
he fell into step beside her, shoulder brushing shoulder as they ran—no space between them now, their strides a mirrored rhythm. a pair of storms. a pair of wolves.
the kill was close.

They two had both seen it, and he made it known in making certain she was aware of their target; Tikigâk answered with a nod of her own, and her stride lengthened. 

She is a living weapon, a beast honed by natures way, tempered in its savage forge—her whetstone, every hunt, every battle… countless, now. No soft edges left to her, if there had ever been any to begin with. 

He, water over stone—she, magma consuming earth. Slower, perhaps, but with a steady progression that left devastation in its wake—a killing force, no matter the speed. She moved in ground-eating strides, and as it stumbled Tikigâk knew its end was near. Had it continued on the stride it had regained, the hunt could have proceeded for hours more. Nothing she was not used to. The hunting of a bison could last the setting of many suns. 

They moved now in tandem, both driven by something ancient and wild as they gave chase—together, indomitable. Each stride of his was smooth, controlled, strong. The man alongside her is a warhammer in motion, a crushing force—frost and snow sprayed from underfoot, like shattered stone beneath his unbreakable anvil. 

Their prey flagged, and Tikigâk would follow the feeling of the body alongside her, flexing the muscles in her hindquarters as she surged forth, a dark bullet loosed from its chamber that would not miss its mark… and he, the brutal backswing of his own bodily weapon before its crushing blow. They two could not be stopped, then—only endured.

the two were born to this.
he knew it as well as he knew the rhythm of his own breath, the beat of his own heart—this was what the gods had shaped him for, what the ice had hardened him into. a predator, a war-machine, a beast given purpose only in the hunt.
and she, the shadow at his side, was the same.
she moved with the ease of one who had chased death before and won. so had he. but their pursuit was not of each other, only the creature that stumbled ahead.
its fate was sealed the moment it faltered.
his muscles coiled, honed, a bowstring drawn taut—
she surged, and he was beside her, but he would be the first to strike.
now.
a burst of power, a final push—he lunged.
his fangs found flesh, clamped tight around the thick muscle of its throat. momentum carried him forward, weight thrown into the creature’s failing balance. it buckled beneath him.
blood spattered hot against the snow.
it was done.

Ensnared between teeth, buckling beneath their collective might, they felled the beast. She maintained her grip, remembering his call for ending it cleanly—it did not gurgle, nor gasp, nor struggle as its blood spilled in her mouth, tongue pressed against the place a once jumping pulse beat wildly. She released, feeling this, and looked at their work, her own sides still heaving.

It had been a good hunt, and the meat was plenty. Tikigâk’s tongue lolled from her mouth as she panted, tail swaying slowly behind her. She regarded the man now with an approving glint in her gaze. He had hunted with her, and had proven himself capable in this. 

Now she stepped forward to partake in their shared kill, hungry for the reward they two had reaped.

faust did not hesitate. the beast lay still, its warmth fading, but its purpose fulfilled. his jaws parted, fangs sinking into the flesh just beneath the ribcage, tearing a strip free with practiced ease.
the taste of blood, rich and metallic, coated his tongue as he settled to eat, methodical, efficient. there was no hesitation, no waste. he did not gorge himself, nor did he wait—he took what was his by right of the hunt.
his green eyes flicked to the dark woman beside him, noting the satisfaction in her gaze. she was pleased, as she should be. it had been a good hunt, clean and swift. a rare thing.
he said nothing, but approval gleamed in his glance before he returned to his meal, the steady rhythm of tearing flesh and snapping bone the only sound between them.

How long had it been since she had been able to eat while the kill was so fresh as this? How long would it be, until she could do so again? She did not know, though understood that it could be some time before she might enjoy the latter again walking the path of a lone wolf. Here with her now was a wolf worthy of her time, her strength. He had lent her his own as she had lent him hers. 

And perhaps that was the end of it. A simple exchange, one that sated her appetite and reinvigorated her. Tikigâk, full now, withdrew from the prey and licked her chops. Now would be a time in which she would rest, normally—but Tikigâk would not wear out her welcome. 

Her gold eyes shift back to he who had become Ujagatsiak to her this day. A hammer of a man, that would bend all that he could beneath his strong arm. 

Tikigâk, content, dipped her head in gratitude. It is time for her to go, she thinks—had she respected him less, Tikigâk might have thought to linger. Any desire to do so existed for an entirely different reason Tikigâk could not yet name, which might have vexed her were she more compelled to think on it. Young yet, she could not identify the approach of her first season. 

She stepped away, pausing only to see if he would accompany her on her way out.

faust watches her step back, the sheen of blood still wet upon her muzzle, the sharpness of her golden eyes catching the waning light. she moves with the ease of a seasoned hunter, a woman made for the land, for the cold, for the fight.
when she does not vanish into the night, when she lingers just long enough, he moves with her. silent at first, his presence a shadow at her flank. the glacier stretches before them, open and endless, a domain carved by blood and will.
at the border, he stops, the crisp wind curling between them. his gaze lingers on her, unreadable, assessing. then, finally—
faust. he offers his name, low and firm. kaan of darukaal.
he tilts his head slightly, considering her. she has proven herself more than capable, and he does not say what he is thinking—that she would be a fine ally, a fine warrior, that her presence here has not been a waste of his time. instead, he settles on,
you are strong hunter.
it is not a dismissal, nor is it an invitation. it is simply truth.

The silence they share remains comfortable. Neither felt the need to fill it with senseless things that did not matter. Their footfalls were quieter now that they were able to drift through the paths they had forged through brute strength. As the sun moved, their shadows stretched and stretched, becoming as tall and as great as any mountain. They arrive too soon to his borders—she had missed this sort of companionship. Tikigâk was not built to be a lone wolf, a pack animal, like any wolf, at heart. 

He speaks again, and Tikigâk listens—words, words with meaning. Faust. Kaan. Darukaal. His attachments—his ties. As he was now, why should he choose the path that she had? Walk the long, bloody road to become Tartok? 

Tikigâk had not known that she had desired this of him until she understood it could not then be had. Kaan Faust of Darukaal could not also be Sangilak Ujagatsiak of Tartok. 

Hm. Who was to say? It was not impossible. Before Tartok was always something else, something that prompted the choice to become. What might it be for him? 

She was not so introspective as to think on it more than that. Tikigâk would not dishonor him in such a way, either—Faust appeared more than capable, and she did not doubt that the wolves within his ranks matched his fierce spirit. 

I am Tikigâk, she rumbles in turn, golden eyes looking to the path they had briefly shared, I see your strength, Kaan—Darukaal, your people? it was not a word she knew, Kaan, and Tikigâk did not prefer to assume when she could receive an answer from the source.

faust moves easily beside her, a quiet presence, his gaze steady on the path ahead. she does not fill the silence with wasted words, and for that, he finds himself at ease.
when she speaks again, he glances to her, the weight of his name in her voice, the curiosity in her tone.
my people. he confirms, the words simple, but carrying the weight of all that darukaal is—was—will be.
his steps slow slightly, just enough to watch her, to measure the way she carries herself, to listen to the cadence of her breath.
you have people? the question is quiet, but not careless. not meaningless. he wonders if she walks alone by choice, or if there is something lost to her. if there was ever a place she called home.

oops!!!!!

 

His question was answered with an affirming rumble. He reminded her of them, her people. Quiet. Strong. Resolute. Firm. I walk the path of one who chooses. I am becoming, and for that, it made the name Tartok mean that much more. Not idly given. Earned in blood, more often than it was not. None would be able to recognize the difference between coincidence and creed when it came to that much. The strong that survived became. 

She had already spilled much blood, and shed some of her own too. Perhaps that aspect of it was completed in the earning of her name. Perhaps? No—she knew that she had accomplished such in that area. Had been told. What came next was why she wandered—where would Tartok lay its newest claim? 

Tikigâk looked toward the looming horizon, to the snow-capped mountains far from here. I seek my people—those becoming, those that are. Those that will choose to be, her tail lashed behind her, speaking of what was ultimately inevitable. 

An unspoken invitation there—not meant for now, not meant for any time but for the hour that he might someday choose. That much mattered; more than anything else it must be his own desire. A path carved in the same way they two had cut for themselves in the hunt—through their own force of will, their own tenacity. What was said then was not because she doubted him, nor Darukaal… rather, the opposite. 

It would never be provided to any deemed weak. For in Tartok, only the strong survived. 

Tikigâk had no good way with words. She spoke with her body, which could not be misunderstood or misconstrued. Tone, tenor—it was hard for her to master, too many nuances. The body was honest where words might not be. So he would see in her no desire to insult, no desire to take from him what was wholly his own—no wrath, no contempt, no ire. She did not posture before him in anticipation of what she intended to be—she was not yet that. There was more she must yet do. 

And yet, there was something here—something that gave her pause, as though there might be some sort of unfinished business to consider. Ancient and wild, that feeling—small enough to brush aside this day. Strange to look at him and think, though, provider!—a word that had never occurred to her to matter, in the context of self, in the context of future. 

Warrior. Hunter. Poisoner. Healer. Never provider—did not all provide, that had such skills? 

Now Tikigâk slowed, as though to see if he would again match her pace—walk with her, shoulder to shoulder. The slow beginning of natures oldest dance, that could last them weeks unbeknownst to her. Tikigâk would not know refusal for what it was; she abided only by her own instinct then, which compelled her to act this way. And so, if he did not match her, she would find nothing amiss nor awry.

!!! we can also do a second thread if she wants to come back to the glacier after, too

faust's steps slowed, a subconscious shift, matching her stride without thought. it was a hunter's rhythm, a thing built over time and instinct, knowing when to press forward, when to linger. she was deliberate in her movements, in the way her shoulder brushed his own, but he thought nothing more of it than what it was—a natural camaraderie.
her scent was something sharp, yet sweet. the bite of frost and something darker beneath, something wild. it settled in his lungs as he listened, taking in the weight of her words.
those becoming.
his gaze flickered toward her, sharp and considering. a pack that chooses its own. a name earned, not given.
darukaal was much the same. he had built it from nothing, forged it in the ice and blood of those who had proven themselves worthy to stand beneath its banner. the weak were cast aside. the strong endured.
who are your people? his voice was quiet, rough from the cold. it was not just a question—it was something else. something possessive.
tikigâk carried no banner, no ties, and yet she spoke of something greater. a people who chose. he wanted to understand.
the night stretched before them, the wind humming low in the dark. he let the silence settle between them, let the weight of it fill the space where words were not needed.
but still, he did not move away.

He moved again in stride with her, step by powerful step. This pleased her, which ought to have alarmed her—this proximity they shared was given to none but for her people. Her rough brand of affection was well known by those that she had run with, though today’s was something that began a little softer. The hunt had no doubt eased some of her toothier inclinations. 

She felt his gaze upon her again, heard his question. It could be a dangerous thing to answer. How many had Tartok killed? Conquered? True, it had always been born of necessity—and Tikigâk could find no guilt for doing what she must to survive, and to help her people continue to thrive. To weep over the acts she had committed would not purify her. And why should she weep at all? 

Tikigâk answered, Tartok, in her low voice, feeling the strength of his body alongside her, seeking any shifts within him. Tension? Resistance? Acceptance? Perhaps he might not know it at all. Our way is our own. But we are a people that put one another before any other. All that we do, we do for Tartok. We are a chosen brotherhood. All that comes before, it is nothing—we kill it within ourselves, however long that might take. We earn our own place with tooth and claw. That much never ends, There was more, much more—but she was not so eloquent. Things are simple. Easy. They hunted together, killed together when they must—no petty squabbles or grievances. No ulterior motives within them but to exist, to live as wild wolves did. To protect their own, to follow their creed—to continue to build. 

What would it be like to kill with him, in battle and outside of the hunt? A curious thought, though this one not so uncommon—it was only strange to think, when he was neither Tartok nor Anneriwok. 

Her gaze fell to his scarred forelegs, respect in her own gaze, before  rumbling, You are no stranger to the fight—were these earned in service to Darukaal?

he hums at her words, considering them. tartok. a chosen brotherhood. the idea is not unfamiliar to him—darukaal, too, is built upon loyalty, upon those who have proven themselves worthy through blood and struggle. but there is something else in her voice, something more than just the words she speaks.
his gaze flickers to her as she explains, watching the way she carries herself, the pride in her voice, the unyielding certainty in her convictions. he does not doubt her strength. he would not mind more tartok among his ranks.
her question pulls his attention downward, to the scars that mar his ankles. she looks at them with something like reverence, but he only shakes his head. boys become men after their blood rite, he tells her, voice steady, old traditions sitting heavy on his tongue. severed ankles impedes what warriors need most.
his mouth curves slightly, something like amusement, something like memory. makes us use our heads.
he flexes the limb slightly, though the pain has long since left him. it is not the first wound he has earned, and it will not be the last. i have no patience for foolish warriors, he adds, glancing at her now, as if measuring something unseen. but i will never turn one away.
it is a lesson he has learned, one that has carved itself into his very being. and yet, he wonders—would tartok have made him stronger? made him something else? would he have earned his place there, as he has in darukaal?
it is a thought for another time. for now, he walks with her, their steps easy, steady, side by side.

Blood rite. 

Tikigâk is no stranger to others having customs—there were even some subsets of Tartok that had adopted their own. But she wonders at the mutilation of self to the point of scarring—would it not make for an easier target? Or perhaps that was the point. Her tactical mind whirred, but she heard something in his voice as he recalled those times.

His point was true—a severed ankle easily spelled death. With or without his blood rite, Tikigâk did not see the man before her as a wolf who would not use his head when put to any task.

Tikigâk listened still, turning her gaze from old wounds to the strong set of his jaw. Her eyes gleamed at his words, licking dried blood from her chops. She suffered no fool ever, warrior or not—they were not long for the world, and the trouble they caused typically outlived them. She was a patient woman in most regards, but again they two shared this in common. 

His invitation shared, considered silently. 

Darukaal. Tartok. Something there, she felt—but perhaps that was the feeling of this awakening thing within her! Tikigâk did not know the difference, not yet. 

There was a new fire lighting within her. It burned a little brighter, with him so near. 

I must search for my people. Seek me again—you will find me, when you look, Tikigâk, still led by instinct, understood without knowing the next part of this dance would be the chase. Would he come to pursue? That much was unclear—and something she, in her present mind, was entirely unaware of.

With a chuff, Tikigâk moved to set off. His face left a mark within her mind no fang had ever been able to.