Duskfire Glacier absolute and pure

aw! <3

Since his meeting with Faust, since his quiet acceptance into the ranks, Astier had prowled the glacier without rest. He was not one to wander aimlessly, yet even he found solace in movement when his thoughts pressed too heavily upon him. Submission did not sit easily on his shoulders; it gnawed, insidious, threatening to unmake him. A sharp inhale. A slight shake of his head. He buried the thought beneath layers of pride, where it would remain untouched.
Spring crept upon the land, subtle at first; the slow trickle of melting ice, the distant trill of birdsong. Life stirred in the valley below, golden warmth pressing against the cold. Unwelcome; unforgiving; It would soon chase him higher, further north, where winter still ruled. His thick pelt, once his precious shield, would betray him in the heat. The shedding would come, but it would not save him entirely. The wraith would endure, as he always had.
Frigid gaze swept the mountainside, searching. Higher; always higher. Then, at last: a cave, vast and dark, its shadowed mouth yawning open before him. He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, claws scraping against stone: a mark, a claim. 
Faust had his word; Astier would leave his mark upon this glacier. And he always kept his word.

blackfell, too, roamed the glacierside. a cataclysmic mood yawning free of him, so putrid it invaded his very scent; his eyes, his very being, stung with rage. the rage sun eater had infected him with. blackfell did not know how long he would stew in his anger; perhaps only a week, or perhaps longer.
he knew he'd know no peace while the man still lived. he could not lay down and live with the fact; the fact. he shakes his head, a measly attempt at freeing himself of such cloying thoughts. they did not leave. now, he was soiled with worse thoughts. gjalla and ishmira still had not turned up; nor black hawk.
he stopped at a pool of ice melt to lap generously and quench his thirst before he continued down the path he carved through the mountainside, scaling with the precision of a nativeborn.
it was what he needed. but relaxation came at a price; blackfell turned the last corner and found himself staring into the backside of white. but not the white of the glacier, which had steadily begun to melt into earthen tones, but another male. blackfell's crimson stare narrowed upon him.

The carving of stone echoed through the cavern, a sound that hummed in his bones. He might have pressed further into the unknown, had the scent of another not drifted to him; unbidden, but unmistakable. A shift, slight but deliberate, and the wraith caught the presence in the corner of his eye. Another shadow. Was this land only inhabited by shades?
Truthfully, this was only the second soul he had encountered in these strange lands. His pace slowed, chin lifting as his tail flicked in a measured acknowledgment. Many mistook him for an apparition, a specter lost to the mountains; and he had long since ceased to correct them. If they whispered of ghosts, then let them.
„Is this yours?” The words left him on a breath of cold, curling like frost in the dim light. From what he had seen, the cave bore no claim, yet he asked nonetheless. A courtesy, perhaps, a formality. His claws had already traced the stone, leaving his mark as if the mountain itself had accepted his presence.
He turned then, fully, his pale gaze settling on the figure beyond. Dark, weathered, the crimson of his stare cut through the dim like a blade, narrow and assessing. A warrior, clearly, one who had seen war and survived it. Whoever had dared lay claim to his eye had surely met their end.
Astier remained unmoved, his stance unshaken, as if he had always belonged here; a splinter of the mountain itself, simply finding its way back home. His face remained composed, his voice as unwavering as the winds that shaped the peaks. The glacier did not lack feeling; it simply endured.

no.
blackfell steps closer, appraising, cold, ruby eyes upon this white man.
is it yours? testing, curious. to gauge the resolve of this man. his strength. or perhaps...
his arrogance. they would come to find out which he was. strong, or arrogant?
blackfell does not move, a resolute figure of black against the pale backdrop of the glacier. watching astier with observing eyes, making no move towards the den, but clearly seeking to toe the line of its boundary.

The weight of approaching steps rippled through the cavern, but the wraith did not stir. „It is now,” came the low murmur, cold as the ice-laden winds outside. His gaze flicked to the marks he had left, then fully to the figure before him: red eyes like embers against his own wintry pallor.
His muzzle dipped, not in submission, but measured defiance. A den was not worth bloodshed, nor the stain of crimson on his pale coat. He was no reckless beast, nor a fool who squandered his place over such triviality. If the time came to defend something greater, an empire, a legacy, then let the mountains bear witness. But this? This was stone and silence.
„Does the glacier only harbor shadows of war?” Naturally, he drew conclusions from the two shadows he had encountered. His voice was the whisper of shifting snow, rough with something ancient, something knowing. Where war had been, war would return. It never truly faded. And should it call upon him, the specter would answer.

blackfell watches, unmoving. measures the weight of astier’s words, the dip of his head—not submission, but not a challenge either. a man who picks his battles wisely. good, then.
that is something blackfell can respect.
his tail flicks, a short, considering motion, and he steps to the side, just slightly, easing away from the invisible line he had drawn.
not yielding, but not pressing further. let him have it. his men would need their morale high in the coming days, yet at the time this was unknown to him. it was only a feeling.
he only grunts in response to astier's inquiry, choosing to ignore it. instead:
your name, he demands.

How impatient! The wraith had little patience for idle chatter, yet it seemed he was not alone in that sentiment. How ironic, that now, of all times, he required such things; not out of pleasure, but necessity. He had to know those who called themselves his kin, the pack he had bound himself to. Icy eyes lingered on the dark figure before him, expression cold, unreadable. 
Astier lowered his head ever so slightly, a gesture out of formality; „Astier,” came the name, smooth and low as distant thunder. „The pleasure is mine.” His gaze, pale as winter’s breath, traced the other’s rigid frame, sensing the simmering rage beneath the surface. A dangerous one, but useful, should Astier remain in his favor; which he fully intended to do.
„I would ask the same of you,” the wraith added, voice calm, deliberate. With practiced grace, he stepped toward the mouth of the cave, shadows curling around his pale frame, keeping a measured distance from the one whose name he had yet to learn.