Silver Moraine [m] I a[m] the edge of the blade,

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I would not have you if you were toothless, came her answer—something she meant. Tikigâk saw him for what and who he was—the parts that truly mattered, when it came to survival. He could hunt, and hunt well. Other than then self-inflicted wounds upon his legs, the scars upon him revealed that he had fought much in his lifetime. He had won each of them in the way that was important: he lived still. Should any opponent have evaded Tikigâk successfully, there was something within them that set them apart from all that had not. Certainly it would have been something worth passing on to the next generation. 

But without so active an imagination, Tikigâk looked to Faust and saw in him only that he was a living testament to all of his victories, all of his successes. Any failure was but a stepping stone, which morphed it then into another win within his life. 

Proverbial smoke filled her brain as he came to bridge the gap between them. Tikigâk had never let another upon her in this way, but instinct then allowed it, encouraged it, as she braced for impact. Even for her inexperience, Tikigâk did not feel fear. She would not have known to for this, but there was no wrongness to the moment that would encourage any anxiety. Tikigâk did not buckle beneath his weight, able to support it. 

The woman of Tartok spoke of what it was to find one’s mate, of what it meant. But they left the first moment of the rite of conception a mystery. When they first joined, Tikigâk simply bore her teeth at open air at the surprising discomfort of two becoming one. Each thrust was a powerful blow in a new, carnal battle—their battlefield beneath them bore the impact of it with her. The feral chorus of what culminated then all of the wilds would hear. 

Tikigâk did not know she could enjoy anything half so much as fighting, as the hunt. As it ever was, past the pain would always come the reward—Tikigâk could feel herself hurtling toward something that filled her mind with… she did not know, not yet. Only that he was taking her there with every heavy, merciless slam—with a still-hungry snarl, she demanded more. All of him.