Morningside Cuesta [m] trottinggale

almost 400!

the warmth of the caribou’s blood painted her face, streaked her nape, and pooled at her paws. her chest rose and fell with a quiet intensity, the flush of the hunt clinging to her like a second skin.

she turned her head to sun eater, her lips curling into a smile that revealed crimson-stained teeth, a sight that should have been feral but was almost serene. her eyes crinkled at the edges, a lightness in them as if she had plucked flowers rather than felled a beast.

she leaned closer to him, the gore painting her pelt no barrier to her quiet joy. husband, she murmured, her voice steady and sweet against the frost-laden air, as if the violence she had just wrought was as natural as breathing. and for her, it was.

in his presence, the sheath of her quiet nature had unraveled into something far more dangerous. yet now, as she stood before him, it was tucked back into her chest, replaced by a calm that belonged only to him.