Moonsong Glacier ram hunt

Luhtar dipped his muzzle in a silent acknowledgment of the plan, yellow eyes narrowing as he took measure of the terrain.

Sólhárr veered left, and Luhtar moved right without hesitation, his paws finding careful purchase on ice-slick stones. He could feel the ram’s presence, a heavy point of resistance in the cold expanse. The beast wouldn’t panic, but it wouldn’t yield easily either.

Luhtar respected that.

Climbing toward the jagged outcrop, ears straining for any shift in the wind or crack in the ice. He circled wide, positioning himself where the ram’s escape route would narrow. The rocky vantage—a place from which to watch and react as Sólhárr pushed the beast into open ground.

He would keep his wits. He would be patient. The ram would find no easy escape, no safe harbor. If it charged him, he’d meet it head-on. If it tried to bolt, he’d close in behind, boxing it in as Sólhárr pushed forward.

The wind bit at his nose, the distant crunch of Sólhárr’s advance muted by the sweeping gusts. Somewhere below, the ram huffed steam into the winter air.

Soon enough, the moment would come—a flash of movement, a thunder of hooves on ice.