Larksong Grotto peace is attainable

faust exhaled, slow, controlled.
his breath curled in the cold, though the tension in his shoulders did little to ward off the heat rising beneath his fur. his green eyes swept over skorpa first, watching as the northman idled on the ridge, axe in hand, mouth full of sarcasm.
his furs bristled.
he wanted to bare his teeth, wanted to spit back that skorpa hadn't done shit but stand around smelling like it. but he bit it down, swallowed the sharp words and held his tongue.
because this was not a war he would win with bared fangs.
he shifted his stance, rolling his shoulders beneath the weight of what he carried. offerings, gifts—consolation for a mistake that was not his own. and yet, he was the one cleaning it up.
his gaze flicked to ayovi, perched above, still as stone, the same unreadable frost in her expression. watching. waiting.
she did not want what he had brought. he knew that before he had even set foot on the mountain.
his jaw clenched, but his voice remained even.
what was done is not enough.
his words were for skorpa, but his eyes drifted to satori, giving her space to step forward.
this was her chance to prove her skill.
if she had any.