Duskfire Glacier roakshore

faust did not slow, his pace relentless, measured, his breath coming steady as he veered to the side, pushing the bull toward its fate.
drive it forward, he murmured, voice low but firm, meant only for fenris. the elk was tiring, its strides uneven, its desperation thick in the air. but desperation did not grant mercy—it only made the kill inevitable.
his brother would cut it off. faust knew this, trusted this, as he always had. their hunts had been like this since they were young—fluid, instinctual, lethal.
his muscles coiled as he prepared for the final strike, his voice carrying between them.
make it quick.
there would be no escape. only the cliffs, and them.