Duskfire Glacier i'm cauterizing the veins you lacerate

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— blackfell does not hide his curiosity of the woman at this man's side. as he begins his slow rumble through the glacier's polarizing landscape, he tips a head towards them, the tail behind his strong pelvis relaxed amongst his hocks.

he cannot make it anymore clear that he is not a threat to either of them. their trust would come when they deemed it.

she does not talk? he asks of the man, then looking to the piebalded woman with a curious crimson gaze. gesturing with a strong paw to her, an open, friendly greeting to her. blackfell. he introduces.

his blocky head turns, and forwards they go. blackfell leads the two of them through a winding path of ice etched out into the icefield through moons of traversing it in the same manner each dawn and dusk. his repetitive patrol, his scent of iron dotted through out it all.

he chuffs into the cold autumn, calling for any sign of his woman. burly figure moving slowly, now.

you are not norse. blackfell directs to sega with a side glance, appraising him for a moment. who are the wolves of big sky?

blackfell's stare grows more smoldering, more curious. it had always warped his mind, how skorpa had managed to claim the heart of the plains woman—likewise, how faust had tried to do the same. how two could love despite their cultural differences; such a sharp contrast to he and gjalla, who's hearts both burned with the strength of their northern blood.