Whitebark Stream mathron

periwinkle irises track movement, each shift in muscle and breath. she had expected him to succeed on the first strike—expected the kill to be swift and clean. but the caribou still stood, its body trembling yet stubborn, a thing that refused to die easily.

when he meets her eyes, she is glowering at him. you can do better. he would serve little use in darukaal otherwise. she saw the glint of something dangerous in him, something cold and restrained yet eager to sink its teeth into flesh. his failure did not seem to shake him, not outwardly, but she knew that fire when she saw it, for it lived in her, too.

loosely, she tails after him. wolf and snow meld into one as he gets further, but she follows. waiting to see if he would strike true this time. embarrassing, otherwise.