Duskfire Glacier the gods call your name

silence. he sat in silence. drinking in the gloss of the moon, basking in the light of his god. long since he had prayed. long since he had offered totem to the shadow-wrought.
it would not be tonight. there is a splitting call. a howl, strangled. it summons him, fettered by a urgency. a grim song. he is moving, then. ice water splattering under thick paws, nails scraping against crumbling rock.
it was late into the night. all of darukaal slept, except for the plagued few. blackfell drove through the snow in great bounds, conquering what of it remained beneath the cowl of evergreen that lay between he and his cousin.
his mind an empty space. frigid. frozen. it burns baleful when he sees. raven fur, snow and ice splattered in crimson. the scent of his wife, undoubtedly ruined in the layers of him. it is a great sound that comes from the man, a cry that sends the birds fleeing from the nests they perched upon. the fluttering of wings, the beat of their strength in the air.
he dies today! it is blackfell's command. it must be heeded. it must be! he would find the bastard, he would flay the hide from him! separate the flesh from skin. he would feast on his fucking carcass.
sun eater would be the token to his god. his heart beats with the drums of a thousand wars as he barrels close, finding his side at gjalla's. a medic, brother. you must have one! a roar.
his mind cleaves in two. a thirst for vengeance. a desire for revenge. sun eater would be weakened. he must go, he must go and he must sever the head from the source of the problem. mindlessly, he supports the other side of gjalla, a duty and devotion that he stay.
faust, a desperation cloying in his voice of chaos, i must go.