Deepwood Weald claws

The frost clung to the edges of her fur like delicate embroidery, a faint glitter catching in the faint sunlight as Y’var’la moved through the trees. Her steps were deliberate, practiced, every placement of her paws a silent whisper against the frozen earth.

She had not sought company this morning but had found it, or rather, had decided to allow it when she’d caught sight of Sólhárr stalking toward the forest’s edge.

From her perch along a low ridge, she watched him now, sharp eyes catching every flicker of tension in his movements. Whatever task he was undertaking, it weighed on him—his resolve like a physical presence she could almost touch. The way his shoulders set, the fire simmering low in his gaze, it all spoke of a wolf on a mission.

It intrigued her.

“You look tense,” Y’var’la remarked at last, stepping from the shadows with an elegance that bordered on theatrical. Her voice carried through the still air, smooth as polished silver, carrying no malice but plenty of amusement.

She descended the slope with ease, her lean frame weaving through the terrain. When she reached him, she tilted her head, examining him like one might a puzzle missing a piece. “What are you hunting, Sólhárr?”