Nova Peak burn butcher burn

the stranger man waits for something—most assuredly some sort of break in their standstill. lorcan only further sets smoldering eyes to him, taking quiet steps over icy rock.

he jabs to the mountain. then to his own chest. cementing a belief that it belonged to him. this is what breaks the stiff in lorcan’s lip—drawing cunning smile over a dark mask.

lorcan has no interest in being a challenger. he has no interest in being a leader. he could’ve struck his own claim long ago—he did not. his tail is relaxed behind him, no attempt at curving into some loathsome, dominant arc.

his name is skorpa. lorcan raises eyes from him, to the peak, and then back to him. he exhales a cold breath and lowers his head between dark shoulders, teeth pale against his black serpent’s face. lorcan.

then, a moment later:

skorpa needs men. a observation, and he is the one to gesture to himself this time. mimicking the man’s body language; a sharp tap on his chest, paw brushing against his own scruffy chin. i fight very well. i can hunt well enough. he makes his next astute observation, inhaling another gust of the man’s scent. you have a woman. i have a woman. they can be friends. 

a knowing smile.