Duskfire Glacier absolute and pure

The carving of stone echoed through the cavern, a sound that hummed in his bones. He might have pressed further into the unknown, had the scent of another not drifted to him; unbidden, but unmistakable. A shift, slight but deliberate, and the wraith caught the presence in the corner of his eye. Another shadow. Was this land only inhabited by shades?
Truthfully, this was only the second soul he had encountered in these strange lands. His pace slowed, chin lifting as his tail flicked in a measured acknowledgment. Many mistook him for an apparition, a specter lost to the mountains; and he had long since ceased to correct them. If they whispered of ghosts, then let them.
„Is this yours?” The words left him on a breath of cold, curling like frost in the dim light. From what he had seen, the cave bore no claim, yet he asked nonetheless. A courtesy, perhaps, a formality. His claws had already traced the stone, leaving his mark as if the mountain itself had accepted his presence.
He turned then, fully, his pale gaze settling on the figure beyond. Dark, weathered, the crimson of his stare cut through the dim like a blade, narrow and assessing. A warrior, clearly, one who had seen war and survived it. Whoever had dared lay claim to his eye had surely met their end.
Astier remained unmoved, his stance unshaken, as if he had always belonged here; a splinter of the mountain itself, simply finding its way back home. His face remained composed, his voice as unwavering as the winds that shaped the peaks. The glacier did not lack feeling; it simply endured.