Moonsong Glacier ram hunt

He watched Sólhárr wrest final submission from the dying ram, the creature’s strength and will drained like a river running dry. Shaking, aching, exhausted legs pulled Luhtar back up from where he'd been temporarily felled, sides and chest heaving with each raucous inhale.

Sólhárr’s voice, ragged and rough, pulled Luhtar’s attention from the fallen beast. He met the hárkonungr’s gaze, half-blinded and drenched in gore. At the sight, Luhtar's intestines curled. Pain flared along his own shoulder, but he didn’t flinch. Instead of keeling over how his body begged him to, he dipped his head, blowing out a cold breath.

They could not linger—this kill was meant to be carried home, a gift claimed from the maw of winter itself.

He took a careful step closer, his legs threatening to buckle but holding all the same. They would bring this ram back, present it as proof of their resolve. Sólhárr’s injury might scar him forever, and Luhtar’s own wounds would ache in memory, but they had done it. Together.

His tail gave a faint, stiff wag—a muted expression of relief. He moved to help Sólhárr heave the black-furred carcass from the crimson snow, their breath mingling in the cold air, ragged and alive. They would carry their prize, and their pain, back to Forneskja.

It was done.