Duskfire Glacier tartok

he was taught once, that a soldier was no good less he stay active. proactive. no use in letting potential waste away standing in formation, when wars were won by being ready. prepared. he hardly ever stopped—hardly rested, even. sleep was a frivolous luxury he couldn't afford. 

and so he moved. if faust was to claim this glacier, then iosef would intend to snuff any potential competition. he would make it clear this plot was claimed, and he'd make it even clearer that there would be no room for rats to infest it. 

he'd been trailing the scent of a lone wolf all morning. had prowled across the ice and snow, nose to the ground. a predator hunting its prey, and iosef never returned from a mission empty handed. 

it'd been a rogue male, scrappy and unfit to survive on this glacier. unfit to survive in darukaal. a sickness that needed snuffed, lest it spread like a plague. it was hardly a fight—and it left iosef disappointed, as he tore into the male with precision.

blood stained the snow, creating a viscous pool that flooded around his paws. it was bitter metallic down his throat, and yet it was an acquired taste. but then there's faust's call, and iosef is nothing if not an obedient soldier. 

the head of the rogue is removed with ease. the brute carries it back as a trophy and a medal. he'd prove his worth, in time, if this would not suffice. 

"i bring you head. like i said." he grumbled once he'd spat the head from his teeth, letting it roll to faust's paws. iosef's tongue rolls over his maw, a satisfied gleam.