Dawnlark Plains First dance

faust licked his chops, letting the warmth of her voice settle between them like sunlight on stone. he watched her recline, blood on his breath and the weight of winter still heavy in his bones.
the glacier's quiet, he offered, voice low, gravel-edged, but not empty.
a pause. his gaze dragged across the plains, distant. conflict brews. some men can’t sit still long.
he looked to her then, direct. but i prefer it this way. simple. honest. his muzzle dipped to the carcass, motioning without words. you’re welcome to it. earned or not, i won’t keep it from you.
his head tilted, pale eyes appraising. what keeps you to the rise, dione?