Deepwood Weald claws

sólhárr’s golden eye lifted to meet y’var’la’s steady gaze, the satisfaction of the hunt tempered by the quiet intensity of his expression. his breath fogged the air as he stood over the still lynx, its lifeless form a testament to their shared effort.

clean kill. good hunt, he rumbled, his words measured, broken common tongue holding the weight of acknowledgment. his voice carried no boast, only the simple truth of their success.

his gaze lingered on y’var’la for a moment longer, catching the teasing challenge in her eyes. he huffed softly, the corner of his mouth twitching in a faint, wry smile. next hunt, your lead. this one, i take.

turning away from her, sólhárr leaned down, grasping the lynx’s neck in his jaws with a practiced ease. the weight of the kill was nothing to him, and as he lifted it, his posture straightened, his muscles taut beneath his coat.

he began to move, slow and deliberate, gesturing with a flick of his tail for y’var’la to follow. as they walked, he glanced back at her, his golden gaze sharp yet not unkind. you see well. track well. forneskja needs hunters like you.

the words were a rare offering of praise, a mark of the trust he extended only to those he deemed worthy. and though his steps carried them forward, the unspoken understanding between them lingered, as steady and unyielding as the hunt itself.