Qeya River tight rope

blackfell’s gaze followed hers, sweeping over the herd with a hunter’s practiced intensity. the caribou moved in a slow, rhythmic cadence, their breaths visible in the cold air like fleeting ghosts. his ears flicked forward at her words, and a faint huff of acknowledgment left him, low and steady.

he crouched slightly, his weight shifting to his haunches as he studied the herd. his crimson eyes lingered on the pregnant cows for a moment, then moved to the younger, leaner figures scattered among them.

he knew the logical choice. he was no green hunter. yet—he scarcely knew of these caribou hunter's ways. so he speaks, lowly, quietly, gruffly: who do you go for?