Golden Glade mustgrave

Qvasir paused in his work, the heavy scent of turned earth mingling with the crisp bite of winter air. His powerful shoulders shifted as he straightened, dark fur dusted with soil. The sound of her approach had not gone unnoticed, nor had the faint, iron-tinged aroma of her kill.

He mether gaze, his own steady and impassive, though the faintest nod of acknowledgment passed between them. His voice, low and rumbling, broke the quiet.

I’m digging dens, he said simply, his tone carrying the weight of purpose. His gaze flicked briefly to the furrows, their edges neat despite the rawness of the task. Mictec’s orders.

There was no elaboration—none was needed. His actions spoke to his devotion, each mound of unearthed soil a testament to his role. He returned to the task without further ceremony, claws biting into the earth with deliberate strength.