Dawnlark Plains you're a poem of mystery,

faust tilted his head slightly, the faintest hint of a tsk slipping past his lips. ox, caribou, bison—he had hunted them all, his prowess proven time and time again. her mention of his suitability among the ox hunters sparked a flicker of pride, though he did not voice it.

hunting is one thing, he muttered, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. his golden eyes remained steady on her, assessing, curious. he wondered if she could see the history in his gaze—the weight of a past that lingered too close, even now.

at her mention of the scent clinging to him, a grimace twitched across his features. ayovi. iskava woman. her scent had become a familiar nuisance, stirring something raw and uncontrollable within him, something that danced on the edge of madness. his teeth bared faintly in response, a reflexive display of irritation he did not fully control.

you’re perceptive, star girl, he admitted with a low chuckle, though the sound carried a certain sharpness. the name he had given her rolled off his tongue as if it were her birthright. she had a way of cutting to the core of things, and faust found himself both amused and annoyed by it.

toshalla's name threatened to surface, unbidden, and his jaw tightened. the thought of her—of betrayal, of loss—made his stomach churn. a courter? once, perhaps. a good one. but not since her. the past had a cruel way of lingering, though he knew better than to let it rule him.

who i have in mind is no concern, he finally said, his tone neutral but edged. yet, even as he spoke, his gaze lingered on her, as if weighing something unspoken. she was a puzzle, a mixture of strength and grace, curiosity and restraint. wolves like her didn’t come along often. you have not given me name.