Redtail Rise beowulf

moon runner welcome to pop in whenever

red dusk does not bare his teeth.

he stands his ground as the boy crests the slope, rusted coat still, shoulders squared but easy. the snarl reaches him and he answers it only with posture, weight settling through his limbs, tail lifting in a slow flag. he could press. he does not.

the feathers at his nape stir when he lowers his head. ptarmigan, redtipped and clean, bound there as proof rather than boast. he steps forward one pace, then another, close enough for breath and scent to trade between them.

he noses the air along the male’s shoulder and throat, reading where he has been, what he has chosen to leave behind. mountain peak. river cold. glacier dusk. there is steel there, and restraint. a fang laid down rather than sharpened.

red dusk turns his head slightly, offering his own scent in return. rise earth. old burn. meat taken clean.

he does not challenge the flagging tail. he does not retreat from it either.