Silver Moraine multieyed raven

faust’s grin is slow, weathered, a thing earned over time. it lingers, bittersweet and fond, as he squeezes his brother’s shoulder and gives him one last look—a silent thing, an unspoken bond reforged after years apart. aye, he mutters, voice rough as gravel, dragging his gaze up toward the looming spires of ice and stone beyond. come on, then.
they fall into step, shoulder to shoulder, the snow shifting beneath their weight. faust begins to speak low, gesturing ahead toward the glacier’s reach. this is the moraine. silver moraine, some call it. runoff from the peaks. we hunt here… and there. his chin tilts toward the distant ridges where caribou trails thread through the powder. good game. strong stock. feeds us well.
the wind cuts through, ruffling the gold of his scruff. that path leads to the heart. caves run deep. old places. safer than they look. he glances aside at vahaelarr, gauging him, pride stitched into the tight pull of his mouth. strong enough for us. strong enough for you.
and on they go, his voice carrying in fragments over the frost, breaking now and again on the rise of the wind, swallowed by the vastness of the land as he guides his brother home.