Frostfire Ridge Echo

The wind scythed along the ridge, hollow and sharp. It sang through the gaps in the stone like a voice that had forgotten how to warm. Astier stood near the crest, half-shadowed by the overhang of weathered rock. Wandering was not his nature, but when the weather began to soften, he found himself drawn to the highest reaches of the range, where the air thinned and solitude pressed close.
When Faust’s voice reached him, a quiet curl of amusement woven into the cold, and the wraith allowed the stillness to hold for a moment longer. Then, slowly, he turned his head, pale eyes casting a glance over his shoulder. „Busy,” he echoed softly, like the word itself was foreign, curious, ill-fitting. „No. Not quite.” A breath escaped him, caught in the cold, and drifted upward like prayer-smoke.
There had been warmth; a flame long put out, but whose warmth had lingered on the walls of the cavern, and it clung to his thoughts like frost in the fur. A brush of voice, a flash of gaze, a shadow presence that had not yet dissolved into the dark. His gaze, as ever, gave nothing away; but something rested behind it, half-formed and withheld.
Instead, he turned his head slightly toward Faust, eyes narrow and pale as sea-glass. He stepped aside, a quiet gesture, not invitation, not refusal, but space made for one who had earned it.
„You’ve come all this way,” he murmured, the edge of his voice touched by frost, „So I imagine you want something more than the view.” His gaze met the Kaan then; cool, steady, without hostility, but also without surrender, „Speak it.”