Dawnlark Plains η

faust descended the mountainside with the patience of a wolf who had long since mastered the art of restraint. his steps were measured, his presence undeniable. at his flank, iosef moved with a quieter intensity, his eyes sweeping the gathering, missing nothing. he took his place beside tuhin.
as they approached the assembled wolves, faust’s gaze flickered across them. unfamiliar figures, but strong—he could tell by the way they held themselves, the way their muscles coiled beneath their fur, the weight of their presence. his lip curled slightly at the scent of the iskava, earthy and fertile, a scent akin to life beginning.
watch everyone, he muttered lowly to iosef, voice barely more than a breath of cold wind. there shall be no bloodshed, unless they demand it.
and then, his attention turned to the one who spoke first. skorpa. the ugly norseman.
he met the man's gaze head-on, unflinching, the way two warriors might size each other up before battle. there was history in that look, though not one faust cared to entertain at present.
mikið hefur breyst. he echoed the words in norse, his voice firm, betraying no emotion. he let the statement linger.
his stare did not waver. this was no ordinary gathering. there were too many factors at play, too many unknowns. he knew better than to trust a blade that had only just been sheathed.
hvaða skilmála setur þú? faust asked, a sharp, assessing edge to his tone. because there always was one.