Permafrost Hollows but you're just a black hole

@Kratos; might use this for naturalist even if it goes south. ^-^

the scent of others; of a settlement the silencer assumes, beginning to sink their roots into the frostbitten earth. the bleak harsh stone spire that stretches towards the horizon like the tooth of jormungandr lodged into the earth where the world serpent took a bite. never one to give much credence to his father's religion — a juxtaposition to his mother's own — it made for nice stories and despite himself he finds himself; the part that is northern, bridging connections in the world he sees. he does not worry that mephala will forsake him for this. he is her's; faithfully ...but he cannot help what he is. a rivaling concoction of things that shouldn't be but is.

a sharpened axe blade carved with runes. a poisonous spider spinning its web of seduction, of deceit. a body of two peoples.

cautious, the silencer treads here on what could be mistaken for borders. poisonous sprigs and blooms gathered carefully into a wrap of spidersilk and dried rabbit pelage clutched betwixt his jaws he continues with his theft of plants assuming that they will not be missed by those who dwell here.

Beautiful imagery!

Running the encampment in laps became an early habit; the dragon has restless feet. Unlike ancestors that would preen underneath the sunlight on a warm rock or tuck away in a cavern away from prying eyes, Kratos is much too eager to sink teeth into flesh and lift a leg to mark than laze.
Where he would once roam for hours in a straight line, covering as much distance as he could and never looking back, the dragon inspects the Hollows and refreshes reminders that strike it as his. Zephyr’s own frequent patrols mirrors his path, laying tracks of footfalls that differ in size and weight.
A snort exhales. Frosted air, a haunting image as head raises, dark tipped ears twitch atop his massive skull. He slows a beat, before pale gold eyes zone in on the target that scampers about their borders. Tail lashes, before it rises in an arch above his back. The chimera picks about at grasses that Kratos would pay little attention to—they are unlike the herbs that the now fuzzy reminder of a medic had plucked to heal his wounds. He barely sees her face, but he sees the invaluable plants.
He strides forth. Muscles rippling with his powerful gait as he closes the gap between owner and shoplifter. His lips peel back in a warning; drop what you have or face his fangs.

ty!

the reddish brown, black pelaged bull comes raging at him. kvasir's grip tightens upon his primitive like-satchel. the seeds of what would become eden's poisonous garden. to try to find other territories with so ready access to them was a waste of time — nevermind that he has no actual place to plant them. stranger's tail raised and lips curled back from his teeth; message received loud and clear. but mephala is whispering sweet hums of encouragement into his ear; intimate. keep what is his. or let the fire kissed titan before him try to take them. let him draw in his lips the poisonous petals, the life leeching nectar.

the melonii's lips twist into a crooked smile 'round the fraying edges of his collection. in a breadth of a heartbeat, he slackens his grip and the rabbit fur so carefully and meticulously arranged falls to the frostbitten earth by his paws, falling open. the blooms and sprigs scatter. kvasir twitches once, resisting the urge to collect what spills like pomegranate seeds upon the floor between them. the smile that reveals his teeth in a wolfish grin is cloying; secretive. take it then. he encourages with interest spearing through his chest as he crushes a flower under his paw to put distance between them.

Rumbling through the beast is a roar akin to the storm clouds—thunder clapping. It comes to no surprise that the chimera is defensive of his catch—the dragon understands the allure of treasure, having wrapped his greedily and daring any to catch. If the thief had been swift, and left without being found, the fault would have been on them for not catching—for the chimera being slipperier than an eel.
Yet Kratos catches him red-handed. His imposing bulk spiked akin to a steel wall. He steps forth, demanding with a snap of his irregular jaw at the air. Next it would be his throat.
Serpentine grin curves across the thief, eerie even to the reaper’s son who is used to a life of nightmares. Pale gold eyes narrow—watching with intrigue as the cache spills down upon the walls of the Hollows. Kratos sniffs, unwilling to lower his head with the chimera so close. Instead, he steps again, bullying his way over the cache with his posture posed aggressively. Mine.

the firekissed titan steps over the spilled contents of the small collection — over the rabbit skin the silencer worked to dry, over the spidersilk extracted with a stick and painted across the fur where it stuck in parts, broken strands writhing against the low breeze; careless. the silencer retreats a few more steps, counting solemnly in his head. one, two, three, four, five. five steps away from what he has gathered; unable to hide the viperine grin that has taken shelter upon his lips.

though arduous to collect nothing there was worth losing his life over. frustration penetrates amusement for the briefest of moments. back to literal square one. and yet ...and yet he cannot keep the low snort from expelling from his nostrils. does the titan even know what he stands over? so possessive? does he know that it could bring plague? death in too much quantities? it was fear and it was power and it was ...work. work and hours and travel wasted.

and then silence broken — do you even know what you guard so jealously? frustration rears its head again. he cares but he does not care; how bothersome. if they are yours what are you going to do with them? a tactic born of his own wrath and greed; of desperation and annoyance. yes, he was too close to their claim gathering what deadly artifices the land had to offer but still. what use did they have for someone who did not know how to nurture them?

It is the dragon’s turn to cackle in amusement. Eyes glistened, the bellowing noise is grating against the ear—akin to nails on chalkboard, boisterous when it ought to not be. He sneers. Kratos an ugly creature from nose to tail tip.
Upset I took your toys away? Oh yes, the dragon lives for snatching and frustrating. It makes him all too pleased to see someone desiring to fight for what he wants. At first the chimera had given up easily, yet now the dragon sees potential in him. Doesn’t matter what I’ll do with them, I can piss on them if I want.
This territory is mine. The only ones who get a piece of it are members of my pack. The hint is there, if he desires to sell his soul to the beast in order to get his precious stash.

at the use of the word toys, kvasir — just barely — avoids rolling his eyes. the poisonous flora that the silencer has managed to collect, sparse as it is, are tools. living things to be nurtured, perhaps. but not toys. not unless one wanted to find their throats thick with saliva mixed with blood. weapons. never toys. a flick of his tail is given; insulted at the misnomer. i wouldn't give those to your acolotyes, o great titan, a twitch of his lips is given; sardonic. enjoying this despite the consequences it may bring him. not unless you want plague and death to spread in your claim. kvasir, too much of his father perhaps, cannot help but giddily poke the hornets nest. ...perhaps it is already too late. a jerk of his muzzle is given, directed towards the spillage of plants that the conqueror stands possessively over.

The candle snuffed out, no longer glistened with amusement, the dragon’s spiked mane ruffles. There’d been a potential—one that he sought to claim for Hyperborea’s future, especially knowing what life they could lead without a medic under their wing. Yet the chimera is no medic, a wandering potion’s master instead.
You threaten my claim and my people again, I’ll kill you for it. This allows the fire dragon to turn sharp—edged with a soured frown with the peel of lips to display teeth once more. It’d been all fun and games until jokes of piss turn to threats of death.
You want these back, you can change your tone and think about joining us. Otherwise, Kratos’ patience will run thin, and he is ready to case the chimera off—wasted potential, more pest than proper soldier.

was it a threat, kvasir wonders, if it is only the truth? he merely tells the titan that they are poisons. the meticulously wrapped package he guards so zealously, so dominantly. they could kill him and his people. they could kill him if kvasir wasn't careful. death did not discriminate between king or pheasant. warrior or god. mismatched eyes volleys between spilled collection and the titan. he did want them because letting them go would mean starting afresh all over again ...but his mood sours as he looks to them again and decides that he does not wanted tainted things for his garden.

keep them.

the melonii backtracks and when he can no longer see the titan, turns his back and lopes off in a different direction; disappointed and annoyed that he has to begin the process all over.

Thank you for the fun thread!

The dragon swats at the pest and in return, the pest no longer has the courage to stand against him. To say that he is not disappointed would be a lie, yet he knows not all would fit the demeanor that they seek in Hyperborea. A win for defending what is his, yet a loss of a body. Kratos decides to take his own tease seriously, and pisses on the seeds, plants, webbing and rabbit pelt. A warning not to touch, for he heeds the warning of death and plague.
He swipes at the ground, too, digging about a thin layer of dirt, grass and snow to further cover the cursed supplies. With it buried, he circles, following the chimera’s trail to make certain he is gone for good.