Duskfire Glacier tartok

faust’s gaze drops to the severed head, the blood still wet where it stains the snow. his expression remains unreadable, though there is something knowing in the way his brow lifts. he expected nothing less.
without hesitation, he bends to take the head between his own teeth, lifting it with a quiet grunt before stepping toward one of the prepared spikes. the motion is practiced, almost casual, as he drives the head down onto the sharpened wood. flesh gives way, and when he steps back, the rogue's lifeless eyes stare out over the ice.
a warning.
you've done well, faust mutters, voice low, rough. a rare compliment, but an earned one. his gaze flicks back to iosef, studying the way the blood still lingers on his muzzle, the satisfied gleam in his eye. a soldier through and through. he made a step closer, butting his forehead against iosef's. a mark of brotherhood, forged through blood.
faust exhales sharply, shaking his head once. we put this on the borders. make a statement. because there always was. the weak sought to settle where the strong had laid claim. they always thought they could take what wasn't theirs.
but this was darukaal. there would be no weakness here.