Moonstone Quarry Upon it

Maybe @Aneira

blood slicked the stone beneath him, dark and thick where the throat had opened clean. solhárr worked in silence, jaws and claws pulling at the hide of the downed caribou, the rhythm steady and practiced. steam still rose from the carcass into the morning cold.

his breath fogged the air in slow bursts, eyes narrowed beneath the weight of old thoughts. each tug stripped more than flesh — it was a task older than words, older than mourning. survival, simple and sacred.

he did not speak. not to the dead. not to the gods.

he skinned because the pack would need warmth.

and because work gave his hands something to do besides tremble.