Silver Moraine [m] I a[m] the edge of the blade,

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The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: Tikigâk is in heat! Thread labeled as mature for potentially mature themes and events. Attn @Faust because they’ve been hanging—but, absolutely no pressure! This is just a smidge bit backdated.

 

Winters thaw warmed Tikigâk to her very core. This was different. The year prior, no such thing had happened to her… but then, she had been in a far cooler climate. Tikigâk did not contemplate the change for very long. Rather, she endured it. The first week of it was challenging. Company was often sent running, and more seemed to want to risk drawing near. They faced the ire of her teeth, and some did bleed for that when they tested their luck. 

And with the passing of that week, Tikigâk turned receptive. The bearish boar of a woman called into the air that begot the hoarfrost surrounding her, a low and summoning note. 

She called then for who might become Sangilak—and with that, her mate. Should more than one come, they would need to fight for that right. Only the strongest of them would earn a place by her side.

the wind carved through the mouth of the glacier, catching the distant note that hummed through snow-laced stone.
faust heard it.
the call—low, resonant, unmistakable—rippled over the ice and echoed through the halls of darukaal. a challenge, not in name but in essence. a summoning from the frost-bitten edge of the world. it was no stranger’s voice; it was hers. tikigâk.
the kaan emerged from the crag’s mouth, a shadow shaped from snow and war. his breath plumed from his nostrils, slow and heavy. there was no rush in him, only certainty. the kind of presence a mountain made when it moved.
down the slope he strode, each step silent but sure, until he came into view of the one who had called. broad. unyielding. eyes glacial, fixed solely upon her.
no words passed his lips. he merely stood—an answer.

Tikigâk was not sentimental enough to feel hope, nor the sort to daydream pithy thoughts in contemplation of whom might respond. The beast of a woman was much more present than that as she marched proudly ahead, plume flagrantly swaying in an instinctive maneuver to spread her scent. Her hard gaze swept across the land, and her ears pricked as she scented him before she saw him. 

Who would think to fight him then, for her? Who could hope to succeed? There before her stood a choice—her choice. 

He had heard her call, and he presented himself in answer. Tikigâk rumbled a note of satisfaction to see him, dull gaze then bright  when beholding him as he approached. The tectonic plates of the world drove two mountains together, where longitude and latitude would meet—the earth would buckle, would bend into itself, but not destroy—build. Create. Become more. 

A crooning note, now—a sound of which she had never made. The beginnings of a new conversation. A low growl that would prompt a new hunt for him. Tikigâk did not yet move within reach; if none would fight for her, she would test again his physicality in this carnal pursuit of theirs. He would hunt again—for her!

the glacier king stood beneath her gaze—still, unyielding, but burning within.
faust did not rush. he never had. his steps carried the weight of ancient mountains, each stride a promise, a challenge, a vow. the scent of her had led him here, bold and scorching, a wildfire drawn through snowfields. and now, she summoned him with a voice unlike any before.
the croon drew his ears forward.
his breath fogged in the cold, but his blood was molten beneath his skin. glacier eyes fixed upon her, reading the posture, the sway, the hunger that writhed like smoke between them. this was not the place for gentleness. not with her.
his own note came, low and guttural, reverberating from deep within his chest. not a call—an answer.
then, without words, faust began to move. a circling step, powerful. a hunter called to the chase. his gaze never left her. shoulders rolled with restrained strength, hackles lifting slightly—not in threat, but in invitation.

Tikigâk was articulate in the way of the wolf and the wilderness alone—so too was the man before her. No uncertainty, no fear, no trepidation. Each step toward her a commitment to something older than the two of them—something she had perhaps known the moment they first had ran together, shoulder to shoulder, ear to ear. 

She heard him, saw him. His choice made, too. 

One another. 

He circled loosely, and she sprang away. Tikigâk knew enough of The Moraine to use it to her advantage, but they two were so similar in stature that, when it came to speed and evading him fully, that was all that could perhaps be counted on. It was good that this was not her goal—strange that she wished to be caught. But not there, no—she would lead him to that very place.

The flex of her hindquarters sent her forth in a propulsion of her strength, gouges in the earth left in her wake as she had carved into the snow there. It was not far, but it was only just the beginning. This would be a long week of hunts, of killing together, of being hunted—of seeing and knowing and learning the strengths they two carried. 

She made no misstep, each move self-assured and strong as she raced against the time she had until he was with her, in spite of the obstacles he surely would mow down—the fire in her own veins demanding she stop to encounter the licking bite of his own.

the sound of her flight stirred something deep—older than thought, older than name. his breath left in a thunderous exhale, legs flexing as he surged after her.
faust did not run for conquest.
he ran because the earth asked it of him. because her call had lit the marrow in his bones like kindling, and now he followed where her fire led.
snow flared in his wake, hooves of the earth thrown skyward by his strides. she was fast—gods, she was fast—but she was not faster than a man who had chased down caribou through white storms, who had outlasted wargs in shadowed valleys. he gained, step by hungry step, the glacier wind howling around them both like a hymn.
he came to her flank—close now, close enough that his teeth found the long furs at her hip and tugged, firm but not halting. it was a warning. it was a promise. he let her run still.
there was a growl in his throat—something deep, something pleased. not a challenge, not now.

Tikigâk’s speed was what the Moraine lent her as they descended, not wholly her own. An enemy’s only chance against a wolf like her was their own swiftness—if they could be quick, if their footing could be sure, they might just live another day.

It had happened. Her enemies sometimes did manage to extend their lifespan by hours. But that was all. 

Each touch felt like a brand—it seared, and yet not nearly enough. He did not stop her—he would not stop her. He moved with her, even in pursuit, and so she wound their path upward to the top of the Moraine, stopping only then to spin around and look at him. 

I choose you, she rumbled with a proud lift of her head, circling now to step alongside him, draw against him in the exchanging of scent. A decision has been made. Our future is together. I am yours—you are mine, she does not hide her own possessiveness toward him, of him—she remembers his own of her. 

She steps forward now, so that he might take his future wholly into his arms and claim it entirely as his own.

faust followed, swift and silent, until the chase slowed. the crest of the moraine offered stillness, the world beneath them drawn in pale blue and wind. he halted a few paces behind her, chest rising with steady breath, plume of frost curling from his muzzle.
her words rolled like stone across the snow: i choose you.
his ears flicked. his gaze did not soften, only narrowed—curious, unreadable. when she moved alongside him, brushing her coat against his, he allowed it. accepted it. a warrior’s exchange. a moment. not a promise.
we are not wed, he said simply, voice low, eyes trailing the curve of the mountaintop. the wind lifted the ruff of his neck as he turned slightly, just enough to meet her eyes. but you know you are welcome on the mount.
his tone did not tease. it was an offering without weight, given and gone, like snow shaken from a pine. the look he gave her held respect—and nothing possessive. a man who recognized strength when he saw it, who played the game of heat and blood for what it was: instinct, not permanence.

His words were met with a slow blink. Wed? A word she did not know for what it was. But the words she shared were not echoed. And that meant something. 

No anger, no disappointment—perhaps she had known this, too. He had been her test. He had almost become her choice. 

Tikigâk swallowed the fire that burned in her throat. 

She recognized then that perhaps she was not the only she-wolf he would have lain with. How many cubs would he have, and to how many women? Logic sought to sink its claws into her—but her hot-blooded instinct…! 

Her tail lashed. The man that takes me, she rumbled, is one man—strongest man. Of will, of body. With me, we raise stronger children. Together. 

Ears cupped forward to receive his words. With you, or not at all, she rumbled. And reasonably, he could turn his back on her—for the better, perhaps. But there was no upset within her—only tempered and logical practicality. 

Not the most attractive trait, no—but she was far from an attractive woman to start. Not inside, nor out.

his eyes held hers, unflinching. the fire in her voice did not unsettle him—it moved through him, echoed something old and buried in his blood. she made her terms. not a plea, not a request, but a truth laid bare.
he stepped closer, the silence between them thick as stone. then, finally, words—low and steady, like distant thunder:
i will stay for a week, he said, voice rough with cold and meaning. test me. make me bleed.
a pause, and then—softly, but no less sure:
but the glacier calls.
there was no lie in him. no sweetened promise of permanence. only the weight of what was, what could be, and what must return. but for now, for the days that remained, he would walk beside her. and when the sun rose again, he would be there. not forever, but present.

Her gaze did not shift from his. Any other would receive a reprimand for this, but in the stalwart man before her Tikigâk had found her equal. His words were heard, considered—to bleed him seemed a waste, when she needed him hale and healthy at her side to provide as she became thick with his young. 

But he did not know her, nor her strength—Tikigâk came to then understand that he must wish to see it. To know for certain that she could defend their young, even against him; the bear of a wolf could grasp the importance of this, as in the birthing den men were not permitted lest they eat their young. 

To any who tried, she would do more than make them bleed. 

A slow nod, to his own challenge then—she saw its worth. 

Her instinct warred with sense. But she would have him know, and understand, and so she spoke in her own low voice: This would call me with you—by your side, for the gravity of what they two would do warranted such—and for her, it would mean choosing him and with that,  shedding Anneriwok. 

The weight of that was significant. Since she could think for herself, the choice to become was a daily thing. Each decision made was an answer to the call of Tartok. To become. It was all she had known, and all she had ever cared to know. It had been all that ever mattered. Her path. And now…

He had answered her call. He stood before her even still. 

The future had begun to change its shape. No  Issumatar, no Sangilak—a different route was presented to her. It happened to some of the women, and Tikigâk had never understood it. Already many would have sacrificed much for Tartok without the name! 

Truth be told, even now she scarcely understood it—but as much had been said to her the very day she dispersed. 

Her own resolve was absolute. She matched his step. No time for doubt. They two stood on a precipice. Tikigâk breathed him in. He smelled of many things; the ghost of a burning fire not yet borne, shrouded still by smoke that had not yet turned to flame. Waiting to catch it, waiting to surrender to its all-consuming bite. It was accompanied by the sharp sting of old sweat, of things worn down first by teeth and then by time. It was a thing that she had begun to crave. 

But she would not force him. Not in this. For once it began, it would become a matter that ended only by the fang of another, or death. Someone might challenge her claim—someone might challenge his. Only if the stranger won would it matter. Tikigâk heeded the way of the savage wilds, a woman molded by it. 

It’s call roared in her ears now, loud as any wildfire or storm or ocean wave she had ever heard (louder, even, louder than anything she had ever known), as she stood so near to him. Her own strength of will was displayed in her preternatural stillness then. Like never before, Tikigâk wished for impact—a sort she had never known. A sort that sucked the air from her lungs, standing so close to him then.

he said nothing.
but a man like faust did not need to speak for understanding to pass between them. his eyes—glacier-carved, steel and silence—met hers with the weight of a vow. there was a flicker of something more in them, there and gone: not doubt, not fear—but reckoning.
he understood what she offered.
and what she gave up.
he had seen it in the fire of her limbs, in the bone-deep resolve of her stance, in the pride she wore like armor and the brutal grace that flowed from her like meltwater off the ice.
this was not a union of softness. not a romance spun by gentle mouths and warm beds.
this was something primal.
he nodded.
he had lived long enough to know what such unions could become. what they could cost. but he was a practical man, and tikigâk was strong. useful. capable of bearing more than young—she could shoulder a role in darukaal.
if this was what she wanted, he would not deny it.
a week, he said simply. and then the glacier would call again.
a week for unbidded time. a week that he would not offer to just anyone.

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An end.

A beginning. A week, he had said. A week—and ever after. Once it was done, it could not be undone. Seven sunsets until she would return to the glacier, at his side—no longer a lone wolf. 

Eight sunrises to choose this, to choose him, again. 

Now they both would be nameless. 

Tikigâk turned to step nearer to him to rake her teeth hungrily against his shoulder—not to hurt, nor bleed, but to now insist. Her circle drew around him tighter, and no words were left for her to give then—he understood. The body would tell him what voice and all else could not then convey, as her plume shifted in invitation. 

He had won the first hunt, after all—it was time he claimed his violent prize.

faust stood still beneath her touch.
her teeth grazed, but did not pierce—an unspoken gesture he understood. the wildness in her was not dulled by submission, only redirected, funneled into something far more primal than battle. he had seen this before in the cold north: the wolves who loved as they warred. sharp. fierce. consuming.
he exhaled through his nose, slow and low. let her circle him. let the tension coil like the bowstring before the arrow loosed.
careful, he muttered, the edge of a grin ghosting his features. i bite back.
and when the line was drawn, he crossed it.
what followed would leave bruises deeper than teeth. snow churned beneath them, and above, the sky watched in silence. he would not break her—no, she would remain unbroken, even as she yielded.
men darukaal did not take mates in the soft way. and faust… he had never been gentle.

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I would not have you if you were toothless, came her answer—something she meant. Tikigâk saw him for what and who he was—the parts that truly mattered, when it came to survival. He could hunt, and hunt well. Other than then self-inflicted wounds upon his legs, the scars upon him revealed that he had fought much in his lifetime. He had won each of them in the way that was important: he lived still. Should any opponent have evaded Tikigâk successfully, there was something within them that set them apart from all that had not. Certainly it would have been something worth passing on to the next generation. 

But without so active an imagination, Tikigâk looked to Faust and saw in him only that he was a living testament to all of his victories, all of his successes. Any failure was but a stepping stone, which morphed it then into another win within his life. 

Proverbial smoke filled her brain as he came to bridge the gap between them. Tikigâk had never let another upon her in this way, but instinct then allowed it, encouraged it, as she braced for impact. Even for her inexperience, Tikigâk did not feel fear. She would not have known to for this, but there was no wrongness to the moment that would encourage any anxiety. Tikigâk did not buckle beneath his weight, able to support it. 

The woman of Tartok spoke of what it was to find one’s mate, of what it meant. But they left the first moment of the rite of conception a mystery. When they first joined, Tikigâk simply bore her teeth at open air at the surprising discomfort of two becoming one. Each thrust was a powerful blow in a new, carnal battle—their battlefield beneath them bore the impact of it with her. The feral chorus of what culminated then all of the wilds would hear. 

Tikigâk did not know she could enjoy anything half so much as fighting, as the hunt. As it ever was, past the pain would always come the reward—Tikigâk could feel herself hurtling toward something that filled her mind with… she did not know, not yet. Only that he was taking her there with every heavy, merciless slam—with a still-hungry snarl, she demanded more. All of him.

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it brought a chuckle from the behemoth. he had known her to be so vicious, cunning. different than any of the other women atop the glacier. satori enjoyed the spirits, the hearth of the realm. svalla was still wild, but she had a tongue on her that ran itself straight into the ground. tikigâk, though, was solemn. a quiet beast that lingered around each waking corner.
ready to strike.
he wondered what she thought when he got there first. with the persistence of his hips. a true testament to the dances of dances, nature's carnal waltz that he was no stranger to. not immune to it.
and he is merciless with her. a woman who covets so much strength beneath her black furs should only be treated by the hand that feeds her. how many times has she scavenged from his carcasses? how many times had she lingered by his borders, assessing him for her own mating right?
it brought a tight smirk to his face. knowing that even the strongest of women would fall to their inhibitions.
and she enjoyed it. faust's teeth were locked to her scruff at her snarls, tugging with the weight he usurped from months of honing his craft. enough to leave the sedimentary bruises of their union.
bound together as two for the time, he found himself peppering soft kisses to where he had set his jaws. to her shoulders, her back.
yeah, he thought. i could do this for a week.