Duskfire Glacier unafraid

mm.
his voice came low, considering, as his eyes lifted toward the trees where the moose had last tread. heavy snow had left deep tracks—sign enough of weight.
a hell of a prize, faust muttered, half to himself, as if the image of the kill had already begun forming behind his glacier-hued stare. and if we’re lucky— a glance, sidelong, toward dione, where a faint smirk played at the edge of his scarred lip, —we take more than meat.
he mimicked antlers with a subtle lift of his brow.
a crown for the victor.
and then, he was already moving. low to the earth, silent through the frost, the hunt begun not with a roar, but a whisper.