Moonstone Quarry Upon it

he did not look at her when she came. only the wet peel of hide under his claws, the dull crack of sinew, the quiet breath of steam rising from open flesh. this was not sacred, nor was it base — it was simply what needed doing.

solhárr worked in silence, as always. his shoulders moved with purpose, not grace; a bear of a man shaped by winters harsher than this one. the blood on his forelimbs dried black against the auburn of his coat, old stains beneath new.

he felt her presence like wind before storm. quiet. watching. she moved close and the air shifted, heavy with unspoken things. the scent of the caribou mingled with the faint salt of her skin. he did not flinch.

aneira joined him, claws slipping into the edge of hide where his had just left. no word passed between them. they did not need them. her movements were cautious, precise. she kept distance, but not absence. a shared rhythm formed — scrape, tear, breathe — and the silence stretched long and full between them.

his eyes flicked once, briefly, to the pale set of her muzzle bent beside his work. they lingered, then returned to the task.

when her fur brushed his, just faintly, he did not pull away.
but neither did he lean in.