Kildeer Rest trappings of starlight

forward dated to april 11

qupirruarjuit moves through the forest with the grace of a shadow, her paws silent on the littered floor, fur blending seamlessly with the twilight shadows. she doesn’t make a sound. every muscle in her body taut, focused, innately aware of every movement in the world around her. her nose twitches, jaws part to scent the air. she has been stalking for hours. silent, patient. and the thrill of the hunt has sharpened her senses, pulling her deeper into the wild heart of the forest.
sharp eyes narrow as she catches sight of her quarry: a young fawn, hidden among the brush, unaware of the danger creeping closer. her tail flicks in anticipation, slow and deliberate.
her daughters, now long gone from her side, have never understood the art of patience. they were all too eager, too brash. but qupirruarjuit is an experienced hunter. she slips between boulders like wind through clouds, unnoticed. crouches low, her form merging with the earth, the tension of her muscles a coiled spring. every inch of her is ready. a flick of her ear, a single breath drawn. she’s within striking distance. the fawn stirs, unaware, its head dipping as it rests. she pauses, eyes locked on it, her body unmoving. It’s just a moment, a heartbeat before she makes her move. without warning she explodes from the shadows, muscles propelling her forward in a blur of strength and speed. the fawb squeals, starts to flee, but it is too late. Her powerful jaws close around its neck, and in a single, practiced motion, she hauls it down to the ground. the struggle is brief, the hunt over before it has truly begun.
she stands over her kill with wild eyes, breathing heavily, gaze as cold as ever. she stands possessively over the carcass, tearing into the meat, her teeth cutting through the flesh with expert precision. no need for celebration. no need for pride. this is simply what she does. what she has always done.
as the forest falls back into its quiet rhythm, qupirruarjuit finishes her meal, and for a moment, the hunt is done. but the mountain woman does not rest. not for long. she licks the blood from her muzzle, stands, and prepares to disappear into the fog again. silent, deadly, untouchable.

the scent of blood was the first thing that met him.
not far ahead, flesh had been opened—fresh kill. faust paused in his stride, thick fur shifting with the motion of his breath. the wind carried it clearly now. not caribou, but something smaller. thinner. fawn.
a grunt rumbled from his throat—wordless and low—and his gaze slid toward @Tikigak
she would know the scent too.
his posture didn’t change. only his ears tipped forward as he advanced, steady, weight in every step. he did not bristle, nor did he call out. this was not his land, but the glacier’s reach had long grown into the valley below. he would see who dared to feed on it.
his eyes scanned the brush. then—there.
a shape stood over a half-eaten carcass. not scavenger, not wolf of the south. a northern woman. wild-eyed. bloody-muzzled. the kill was clean. efficient.
faust’s pace did not quicken. he only flicked an ear to tikigâk again, low and pointed.
stay sharp.
and he said nothing, yet—only watched as the mist curled around her form. his silence was not threat, but measure. what kind of wolf were they meeting now? predator? or ally? the mountain would decide.

let tiki post next <3

The wind bit harder this hour, but she welcomed the sting. It sharpened her already-keen senses, curled cold through her thick coat like a second skin. The scent came first—blood, fresh and warm. Meat. Not from a kill of theirs. Tikigâk, inherently alert, lowered her head to snuffle bearishly at the earth seeking to learn of those that had passed through, both long ago and most recently. Wolfscent, mostly, with the stale scent of a mountain lion that had gone through the territory before all of the rest. Still, cause to be on the lookout—she gestured to the earth for Faust so he too could know this. 

The fawnsblood had been shed by wolf. But a cougar might still lurk if this were its own home base, and it returned. Tikigâk remained aware. Her gaze met that of her mates and she presses against him. She is with him. Hyper territorial, and cognizant of the young of theirs she might soon become heavy with, Tikigâk was inclined to warn off any that might steal resources meant for her own. Darukaal, now, had also become this. 

She moved at his side, prowling steadily forward and matching his stride. Each step she took was deliberate—her weight settled into the earth like the promise of a death sentence. Her dark gold eyes appeared black in this light, flat and cold as she scoured the horizon for the hunter. 

No haste in her slow step, even when her gaze landed upon her. 

Tikigâk said nothing, did nothing, but watch—for now. Her ears cupped forward, expectant and listening to the wilds.

two of them approach, man and woman. husband and wife, perhaps, given their close proximity. the woman stands close to her man, possessive, and qupirruarjuit makes clear her lack of interest in the scarred man with a grunt and turn of her head. she leans down, drinking deeply of the babe's blood, and meets the woman's gaze unblinking.

an acknowledging chuff then as she steps away from what remains of her kill. if they wish to feed from her scraps, she will allow it. qupir does not break the silence shared, drawing tongue across bloodied lips in pensive thought. it is not a fight she desires now, but the tension in the air wraps taut around her lungs.

her tail lifts, confident, curled over her back and twitching. she will hunt for kuvageegai, soon. and what she kills then she will not share with any other.

faust stands like the northern stone he was born from—unmoving, unmoved, yet deeply aware. his body shifts just enough to brush against tikigâk, shoulder to shoulder, muscle to taut muscle, a reassurance of unity in the face of the unknown. her feral weight beside him, the pressure of her vigilance, it grounds him. his eyes do not leave the pale stranger, even as he draws in the scent she’s steeped in—blood, bone, mountain. formidable. alone.
his gaze narrows. not hostile, but assessing. respectful in the way of seasoned hunters who know not to provoke unless necessary. the woman shows no challenge, only acknowledgment, and for that he offers the same—a grunt, low and quiet in his throat.
she had killed. that much was clear. but he was a plains hunter, through and through—this was small fare. game enough for the cold-bellied, not for a pack in its prime. his nostrils flared slightly, catching the sharp tang of cougar beneath all else. it was still near. good to know.
he turns his head, brushing his muzzle along tikigâk’s jaw, low and quick. a motion of shared thought—not this. not now. they could do more. together.
and then, without shame, the kaan lifts his tail and marks the earth where they stand. a clear line drawn. this is theirs now. not a challenge, but a declaration. darukaal. he does not look to see if the woman watches—he assumes she does.
then, finally, a rumble in his chest. something bigger, he says to tikigâk, deep and sure. you will grow big. his eyes are already turning to the horizon. let the mountain woman keep her kill.

not an exit yet!

No fight was offered from the stranger. She is mollified some as the woman’s gaze diverts, grounded too by her own mates solid presence. 

Tikigâk watched as the woman stepped away from the kill in an offering of peace, of good will. Had she not just hunted with the man alongside her, she might have partook—but she left it for the woman, not possessive of the thing the other had felled. Tikigâk was a scavenger no more—she need not worry for her own next meal any longer. 

The touch of Faust against her chin soothes her further. She understood, huffing out a slow and easy breath. 

Her mates display was matched. Tikigâk’s own plume rose squarely over her hindquarters in a show of her own place—and as her mate speaks she appears all the more severe. Pregnancy would not soften her—in fact, it would make her all the harder. 

His words were a warning. Tikigâk was the promise that came after, should the stranger overstay or overstep—with life brewing within her, Tikigâk’s singular kindness was letting the woman linger to finish her food. But such a thing had an expiry minute upon it. 

The wind revealed to Tikigâk that the other fierce woman before her might understand. Tikigâk, still stoic and straight-faced, aloof as she ever was, could not see any indication of her condition; the truth of it was, she only suspected the scent the other carried was of her bodily change. Tikigâk wondered if her own revealed her, and looked to study the features of the woman as to see if understanding dawned.

recklessness is a man's plaything, crude and childish. she will not be goaded into this pathetic measure of worth by him, nor the woman who owns him. still, the meadow is plentiful. she would be a fool herself not to consider every option. for the time being she will relent- she does not have the mass of bodies these two appear to possess via scent alone.

but she will, in time. and they will all yield to her. within the womb, her daughters grow strong. they will take this place with her, carve their claim into the land itself.

she lowers her head, although not in submission. in the heavy calm of a storm that has not yet broken. sharp eyes do not leave them. he postures, the fool, and his mate hovers like smoke, insidious and watching. qupirruarjuit drinks in their scent, committing it to memory.

then, deliberately, she turns from them. each step she takes weighs heavy with intent, paws pressing firm into the soil as if all the earth below is hers. let them think they have won. let them dance in circles around what they believe to be theirs.

behind her ribs burns a steady fire. within her blooms life-- small and hungry. her future, hardy and furious and sure. these lands feed strangers now, but one day they will sing with the howls of her bloodline, unyielding and vast.

the stranger's scent stirs, warm and heady, and pieces begin to fall into place. their union is one brought upon by nature, much like her own. perhaps in the future their daughters will meet and share warmth. prosperity. the thought does not disturb her.

"you carry soon." brusque and deep and accented, tone still a touch from friendly. they are strangers, still, but the dawn of new life is cause for joy. she gestures to her own belly, understanding in her eyes, and then turns to leave. they will not fight today.

faust's teeth clicked quietly behind closed lips as the stranger withdrew. he did not lunge, did not follow—only stood there, silent and monumental, like a stone carved by many winters. her steps were heavy, and he respected their weight. but her scent, thick with the quiet thunder of unborn life, made something shift behind his sternum—something not warm.
not his. not darukaal.
he grunted low, watching the sway of her figure disappear between brush and snowdrift. only then did he tip his muzzle toward tikigâk’s neck, pushing into the thick fur there. not gently—but grounded, possessive. hers. his. their bond, freshly forged and already battle-tested, was not something he flaunted, but neither would he hide it. her strength was his standard now. and her children? his legacy.
she won’t come back, he muttered, more to the wind than to her.
and if she did?
he would not share this mountain again.
his gaze followed the trail the woman had taken, narrowing. the wind still stirred with her scent, and that of the fawn’s blood. faust gave it no more time. he turned back to the kill, but his ears flicked, catching tikigâk’s breath, the way she stood. solid.
he glanced to her now, muttering with some strange trace of dark humor, strangers breed like hares these days.
then—flat and certain—we’ll take something larger tomorrow.
there was no room in darukaal for small ambitions. not anymore.

Tikigâk watched on in silence. As the other lowers their head, Tikigâk does perceive it as submission—it is why she thinks nothing of the others heavy tread as they step slowly away, likely not to incite chase. Tikigâk thought the woman smart for both things—they understood what it took to survive. If one had pride, it must always come second in moments such as this. Moments that meant whether or not you would live to see another day in good health, if at all. 

They had abandoned the meal. The other paused long enough to speak to what Tikigâk had not yet been certain of, at least whether or not any other would know of her own changes. Tikigâk watched the other gesture toward their own stomach, though even still was quiet and unmoving—not confirming, not denying. 

Only when the woman was out of sight did Tikigâk turned to look at her mate, hearing his faint words. She may. She knows there is food to be had. We must claim the moving herds. Bring them to Darukaal, it is only a suggestion then, and she wonders at its merit. Now she moved toward the still-warm carcass. 

Small. But still food. We will finish this—if you do not hunger, I shall, she rumbled in her deep voice; meat was meat, and she would carry his young this year. None would go to waste. His bemused tone was answered with a bearish snort, but her eyes upon him, no longer indifferent and empty, were filled with something like mirth. 

She nods to his words. Tikigâk would eat, and eat, and eat—already she was filling out into the wolf that she had been once before, once a little leaner from her time in the wilderness alone. But soon even larger still for the cubs to come.

What other cubs, in Darukaal? she asked next, thinking of the young to support. Tikigâk knew Faust would have determined other breeding pairs based on the plentiful food—she did not worry for their own cubs starving. But as his mate, and now as Darukaal, Tikigâk would step up to aid him in ensuring all mouths were fed until she could not due to whelping. 

Tikigâk placed a paw upon the carcass, and began to eat—but an ear cupped toward him indicated she was paying attention, even as the other listened to the wilds beyond being still cognizant of the cougar that had passed through.

faust’s shoulder brushed hers as he stepped forward, looming over the remnants of the kill. his gaze followed the path the stranger had taken, still sharp, still wary, though his voice remained level.
there are no other cubs, he said plainly. not yet.
he lowered his head to the carcass, tearing through sinew with methodical efficiency. and there won’t be—unless i allow it.
his tone was not cruel, only resolute. in darukaal, chaos bred weakness, and weakness led to death. it was his duty to ensure only the strongest were born into this land. his word was the law, and no male would sow seed without his consent—not unless they sought to face him for it.
only the best should carry, he said between bites. only the strongest cubs will survive the cold.
his eye found her again—you, that look seemed to say, you earned it.
her suggestion was sound. his ear twitched as she mentioned the herds. we’ll push north next week, he decided aloud. leave markers. if that woman comes back, she’ll know we run this range. if she tries to feed here again without permission... we answer it.
his muzzle smeared with blood, he moved to press briefly against her flank. not softness—reaffirmation. she was his mate. this was her claim, too.
eat, he rumbled low. grow big.
then, after a beat, more quietly: our cubs will not be weak.

Tikigâk ate with him, listening on as he she did. Her ears twitch in understanding and as he spoke of there being no others without his permitting it, Tikigâk rumbled. In this she would move with him. Tikigâk saw the reason behind it—it was the same, within Tartok, and Tikigâk understood why. 

His next words brought Tikigâk’s attention back to him, hearing him entirely. He had seen her strength, her capability—he knew he had picked rightly. The same look was leveled upon him—Tikigâk did not doubt her choice. 

She moved to the front of the fawn, beginning to dig into its crown—she extracted the choice bits from it to eat, before she none-too-carefully began to bear brutally into the place where neck and spine connected. The thing was so frail in its youth that it was an easy task, and she moved to bring to him the small skull, placing it before him. 

An unspoken message, but one he surely would know the meaning of. A memory to keep. Something they had made their own through a simple show of strength—something they would continue to do, together. 

Tikigâk watched as he smeared bloodmatter upon her, and moved to make him the same way with an approving rumble. Yes. She would move with him, there was no question of it. 

He bid her eat, and Tikigâk need not be asked again as she stepped toward the meal to finish what little was now left. There would be no scraps for the scavengers—they two had made sure of that.

he watched her tear the spine from the skull with sharp precision—savage grace, a woman carved from the same war-forged marrow as he. the wet snap of bone echoed in the hush of the glacier, followed by her careful placement of the offering at his feet. a prize. a symbol. he said nothing, only looked at her, slow and long, before nodding once and taking the bloodied crown in his jaws.
they were not a tender pair. they were made for cold and stone and blood. and yet, in that quiet ritual, something unspoken passed between them—something lasting. enduring.
he smeared her with gore because she was his mate, and she returned the mark because he was hers.
when the meal was picked clean and the marrow sucked dry, he stood and licked blood from his muzzle. eyes heavy, muscles looser now from the work of battle and feast.
he stepped toward her again, brushing against her side with weight. her season clung to her like fire. he rumbled low, rough, already reaching to guide her through the snow, away from the kill, to where the trees might give them cover.
they would rest.
then they would claim again.
and again.
the blood on their fur would dry long before their hunger did.