Golden Glade demuts

Qvasir listened, his expression impassive but attentive. He let her words settle, considering the image she painted—creatures like this, but taller, slimmer, without horns. Fast, yet foolish enough to run themselves to their own demise.

When Atoztli laughed, he did too, a low, quiet chuckle, the kind that rumbled from the chest—amused but not mocking.

No, he agreed, glancing at the fallen beast before them. It is not good to be guanaco.

His gaze lingered on her, noting the way she measured him, the way she spoke of the hunt as both strategy and inevitability. She understood the ways of death, how to bring it swiftly or let the land do the work for her.

But I imagine it's good to be the one driving them over the edge.