Duskfire Glacier suuya

faust shakes his head, slow and deliberate. the glacier holds more than what meets the eye. his voice is rough, edged with certainty, dismissing the notion of пустошь— a language he cannot speak.
caves, he says, lifting his chin slightly, letting the word settle. deep ones. shelter from storm, from enemy eyes. his gaze flickers, measuring. hunting fields. caribou. elk. his lip curls faintly, a ghost of a smirk. big game.
he lets the silence stretch, lets the weight of his words settle. then, with the same certainty, a bathing lake. a huff follows, almost amused at the simplicity of it, though his expression remains unreadable. water that does not freeze.
he studies the man then, gauging the interest in his stance, in the way his ears tilt to catch his words. he is like a blade, this one—honed for war, not just survival.
faust leans forward just slightly, the weight of his stare pressing. you ask if i will have an army, he muses, voice a quiet rumble. darukaal will have warriors. soldiers, hunters. a people.
he tilts his head then, slow, calculated. but you—what do you want?