Deepwood Weald claws

Y’var’la followed, her steps light and effortless as she matched his measured pace. The weight of his words hung in the chilled air between them, unexpected and not without significance. She inclined her head slightly, the faintest hint of satisfaction curling at her lips—a subtle acknowledgment of his praise, though she would not indulge it aloud.

"High praise," she murmured, her voice smooth, teasing, but not without an undercurrent of sincerity. "I look forward to it."

Her sharp eyes flicked to the lynx dangling from Sólhárr’s jaws, the crimson streaks on its pristine fur painting a picture of their triumph. She could appreciate the elegance of the kill, even as her mind danced ahead, considering what might come next.

"Forneskja is fortunate, then," she added, her tone light but edged with meaning. "To have hunters like us."

She fell into step beside him, the snow crunching softly beneath her paws.

Eventually, she glanced sidelong at him, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "Let us hope the next hunt offers more than easy prey. It’s hardly fun when you claim the kill before I can even sink my teeth in."