Duskfire Glacier tartok

faust watches as iosef moves, swift and precise, a beast given purpose. the caribou scatter like wind-tossed leaves, the thunder of hooves shaking the frozen ground beneath them. he does not rush—does not need to. patience is his weapon, and he wields it well.
his eyes track iosef as he drives the calf toward the ice, cutting it from the herd like dead weight. good. clean. effective.
then faust moves.
his muscles coil, and in a single breath, he surges forward. his stride is long, purposeful, every motion calculated. he does not snap, does not waste his breath on wild snarls. no, he is silent, swift—death given shape.
the calf stumbles, floundering as the ice betrays it. a mistake. its last. faust is upon it in an instant.
his teeth sink deep. flesh gives. the bellowing wail of the dying calf fills the cold air, but faust does not linger in its suffering. he jerks, hard, and the sound cuts off—silence, save for the heavy pant of breath.
blood stains the snow.