Duskfire Glacier a matter of honor

for @Faust

tense shoulders wear a cloak of raven feathers, each one embedded into the thick ruff of his fur. the raven still needles, beak threading through, decorating his scruff. blackfell is of the darkness, now. it is late. the moon rose hours ago, now she reached her peak.
midnight.
ruby eyes split the onyx coating of the world now, as he walks. over a tall ridge of ice and stone, large paws careful to not slip; experienced with long traverse of these tundras. when he comes to the tallest rise, he stops and turns his snout to the sky.
a howl. it is long, held and a demand for audience.

faust hears it, and his ears lift from where he stands on the frostbitten plain.
the voice carries on the wind, curling cold around his ribs, familiar as winter’s bite.
his breath leaves him in a slow fog.
…cousin, he mutters, almost to himself, low and hoarse, as if saying it aloud might make it sit better on his tongue.
but it doesn’t.
there’s weight in that call—he can hear it, feel it threading deep into old marrow.
he thought they were done with this. thought the ghosts had settled.
faust sets his jaw, grim as the night, and moves.
the glacier creaks beneath his steps, wind whipping harsh against his face, but he does not slow.
when he finds blackfell silhouetted on the ridge, dark as the void itself, faust’s gaze pins him.
it is not anger that settles there, nor suspicion.
just distress.
just knowing.
you drag your shadows all the way here, then?
a rasp of voice, dry as the cold between them.
he stops a few paces off, looking up through the sweep of his own breath.
what is it this time?

Can be a cameo unless spotted.

the late hour did not hinder the shadow. she had always done her best work in the evenings, accustomed for such a long time to month-long darkness. this was no different: if anything, a return to her normal. ice below, darkness above.
a demand carried through the night for the man sulukinak had come to know as the chieftain here. she slunk closer, keeping silent and secret, curious over who could be shouting at such an hour.
did she know the man who came knocking? he looked as fit as any hunter. she could not immediately remember. but as she lingered she hoped to observe and to learn.

it is not long before a gold crown appears. shrouded in shadows, he is a knife against the backdrop of the ice. blackfell casts a searching glance over; sees nothing but darkness, nostrils scenting at the crisp, frigid wind. tonight, it is cold.
faust's words carry staunch, and are met by the narrowing of his eyes. he saddles downwards, slowly, from the incline he'd postured himself upon; paw steps muted thuds against the blanketed snow. the night is dark, cousin. a biting voice, full of gravel as if he had swallowed a handful of it. stuck in his throat.
the breath is visible; it curls from his mouth and nostrils, upwards into the sky above. the stars are quiet, void of the sky, and do not look down upon them. only the harrowing song of the moon. blackfell comes to stop where his shoulder mirrors the man's hind, and faust's his.
looking back with blood red eyes. i no longer run with saatsine. he says lowly. i come to warn you. do not let your guard down with him, a breath, cold, he will come to take what the glacier offers, be it tomorrow or a year from now.
blackfell's eyes roam faust's stern face for a moment, before settling upon his crown. a sneer forms upon his scarred, dark face where brows narrow above his slitted eyes. does svalla warm your bed yet?

faust waits for him. waits until the shadow splits from the night, until the air bends with his breath and the ghost of the man he once knew stands before him, colder than the wind that carves between them.
he heeds him. how could he not? this is blackfell. and when blackfell speaks of danger, of men who circle and bite and wait for their moment to carve the marrow from your bones, faust listens.
without a word, he draws in close, presses his forehead to his cousin’s as only those born of the same blood and stone would know to do— as crownores do. the touch lingers, longer than it needs to. not for affection—no, they are not soft men—but because the weight of what blackfell carries is heavy. and he shoulders it, if only for a breath.
he inhales the frost of him, the dusk, the reek of something unraveling.
what has happened? the words come low, curling between them like smoke. then, with the faintest nod, the crown tilts toward the heart of the glacier. you may take refuge here.
a glance over blackfell’s shoulder lands on @Sulukinak, and faust calls her forward with a simple flick of his ear. bring him something warm. a beat passes. and mind your tongue before women, he adds, looking back to his cousin with something like reprimand, though it's softened by the faintest curve of his lips. there is a ox hide in the west dens. sulukinak will take you— the den will be yours.
he shakes his head next, slow. resolute.
no. @Svalla is not mine.
and somehow, somehow, that truth weighs heavier than the warning.

the dark crown instinctually dips when faust nears. foreheads touching, the great collision of two stone mountains. a touch of strength, binding, bonding; the depth of a brotherhood blackfell has not forgotten, and never could.
his name is sun eater. and when he speaks, it is with malice. venom dripping from words, damned as the depths of his soul. from there, the story unfolds. every gorey detail, none left unbarred, none spared from the ear of his cousin; of his brother. it is not a long one, a quick one, but highlights the most pivotal of moments:
the queen. their love. the tyrant. the crown. the sword.
he clears his throat and draws deep breath, turning attention to the woman he had not noticed. something faint, something gut-wrenching. she is familiar—and yet a mind fogged by chaos of the day cannot place her. a huntress, that is what she was. an order for something warm, and blackfell feels his eyes crinkle with amusement at faust's biting words. she knows not what we speak of. drawing himself to his height, shoulders rolling, attempts at expelling the tension which still rode upon his dark pelt.
thank you, cousin. he says. though his ears twist, falling briefly flat upon his head as svalla's name is spawned between them. blackfell scoffs, head turning, as if she might appear from the darkness of the glacier yet. but he says nothing, only waiting for this sulukinak woman to lead him away.

a traitor to her uncle? if this was of any great shock, or if she felt one way or another about this, nothing showed.
perhaps her eyes sparked with recognition; thus faust noticed her lurking near and called her forth with a motion. was he expecting service? what respect had he garnered for such a demand?

yet again she would not betray herself to anyone: he had mentioned a hide, and a bedding place.
if more was shared between them, she was unaware.

with some time she appeared again, sulking and from another path, as if to say all was well and ready. she would lead this man to where the space awaited him.

faust watches them both, slow and steady like the tide rolling in. the story blackfell spills is weighted, every word laying down like stones upon his back. sun eater. the name is not new, nor is the poison that rides it. faust has heard it before—met the man before—and he knows the venom to be truth.
his muzzle dips, barely perceptible. i have met him, comes quiet. once.
then sulukinak moves, silent and sharp as always, and his pale gaze trails after her. he does not miss the flicker in her expression, brief as it is, as if blackfell’s face scratches at some old memory. perhaps it does. faust does not ask. not now.
when she returns, faust's gaze lifts to meet hers, and his nod is subtle. thank you, he says, and it is simple, but there is a depth to it. not just for the task, but for the silence. the steadiness. the way she does what is needed without question or complaint. he sees it. all of it.
his attention drifts back to blackfell. go, faust tells him lowly, with a faint jerk of his head toward where sulukinak waits. rest. you’ve earned that much.
then quieter, as the wind scrapes through the ice around them:
you’re safe here, cousin. for as long as you need.

there comes the deep, long bow of blackfell's head before his cousin. a merciful show of respect that could only be pried from him; no other, not after the hellscape he had come from. respect not earned would not be given from the man, not again. never again.
but before he turns to go, he sets stern gaze on the man. looking to his green eyes, feeling the burn of camaraderie in his crimson. should he come, blackfell sets his jaw, nods his head, you will have me, cousin. a vow. solemn, before the moon and stars that shone bright upon them tonight. blackfell felt a thrill to think of what it would be like when he tore the throat from sun eater. it would be his victory. and he would fight a long, cruel war just to see it come.
a moment, a beat, passes.
then he relents, turns upon four thick paws and begins to follow after the woman called sulukinak.