Moonsong Glacier ram hunt

Luhtar gritted his teeth as the ram’s horn gouged against his shoulder. Pain flared, sharp and immediate, but he refused to yield an inch. Instead, he set his paws wider, bracing himself against the slick surface beneath them. The beast thrashed, its power fierce and unrelenting. Every breath Luhtar drew tasted of blood and ice, his lungs straining as he fought to keep steady.

Sólhárr’s voice cut through the chaos, that single word—steady—anchoring Luhtar’s focus. He wouldn’t fail now. As the ram swung its weight toward Sólhárr’s attack, Luhtar seized his opening. He shifted his stance, angling his body low and surging forward in a controlled lunge. His jaws parted, teeth aiming for the ram’s exposed throat.

He felt the rapid thrum of its pulse, the hot rush of blood against his tongue. For a heartbeat, he held it there, victory assured, the ram’s struggles beginning to falter as its air cut short.

But the glacier’s ice was treacherous. As the ram jerked in one last desperate twist, Luhtar’s hind paw lost purchase on a slick patch of frost. He wrenched to keep his grip, but the sudden shift of weight sent him sliding. The ram’s horn caught him, a rough scrape turned to a brutal stab. Pain lanced through his side, fire against the winter chill.

He lost hold, dropping into the snow with a muffled grunt, his wound stinging, hot blood oozing beneath his thick pelt. For a moment, he hissed through gritted teeth, frustration and pain mingling. Yet he refused to relent.

“Hurry!”