Dawnlark Plains η

faust stood, shoulders squared and cold as the glacier beneath their paws. the back and forth of their words meant little to him—talk of trade, of peace, of alliances forged on brittle ice. he did not want it. did not trust it. too many mouths speaking at once. too many men he did not know, whose eyes wandered where they shouldn't.
his gaze swept across the gathered. scores of wolves, all eager to hammer something from the air. but faust? faust remained stone.
no trade, he said at last, voice low and unbothered, as if the weight of the meeting bored him more than angered him. i owe nothing.
but a hunt—yes. that, at least, was honest. fangs in flesh. sweat on snow. blood in the drift.
he gave skorpa a passing glance, something like reluctant agreement flickering behind the steel of his eyes. we hunt. fine. meat is meat.
then, to the others: keep your tongues and keep your peace. after that, go home.
faust turned from them, his tail high and stiff, already leading into the frost without waiting to see if they followed. let them prove themselves by claw and kill, or not at all.