Duskfire Glacier [m] Village song

the wind came down in sheets, sweeping through the bends of the glacier like a thing with breath.
faust stood still for a moment beneath it, tall and dark against the white world. ahead, the trail was sharp—hooves had struck into snow not long ago. caribou, maybe two. one heavier than the other. slow.
promising.
he turned his head to glance back. @Tikigak was there—silent, strong as ever. the same as she’d been the day she chased him through the moraine, demanding a hunt of another kind. they had not spoken much since. they did not need to.
today, the air felt different. clearer. like the world had opened its throat and breathed in deep. faust took it as a sign. the glacier would feed them.
he resumed his pace without a word, broad paws breaking ice and snow beneath. his breath came in thick clouds as he pressed into the winding path, toward the frozen riverbed, the beast’s trail etched like a promise.
this was not just for meat. it was a proving. a measure of his strength. of her strength.
of what might come.

It was a companionship like she had never known. 

This one evoked and awoke things within Tikigâk she had no name for. He earned a hundred different names in their many days together—each claiming undid some old piece of her, chiseled her into something different. Fiercer. Greater. Terrible. 

His.

She followed slowly for a time, not out of resistance nor fear but to learn the path they walked toward what was his—hers, now—home. The many scents that mingled—who had passed these borders most recently? Who frequented this place more often than the rest? 

The large, ugly bitch moved to roll within the scents, adding them proudly to her furs—her own scent, fragrant still, would fuse and mold. And once she was done, she rose to shake her furs and march toward his side. 

As Tikigâk Darukaal. 

Her ears fanned forward, then back, as her gaze alighted upon the imprints left by caribou, by the looks of it—and, as her nose briefly hovered over said imprint, the smell confirmed what she had suspected. 

But her eyes did not leave him. Her appetite for him would linger until the end of her season, and she surged alongside him, ahead of him—tail fanning side to side to spread her scent in a wave before she spun slowly around, licking her chops.

In her eyes was a hunger for many things.  

day 2 — doesn’t initiate a fight

faust grunted.
not at her scent, not at the way she moved through the snow like a challenge dressed in ice and heat—but at the knowledge that she had chosen this place, these borders. him.
she rolled, fused herself to the land, and he watched. then passed her with a brush of his thick shoulder to her flank. not teasing—asserting. grounding her to the hunt they had begun before instinct bared its throat.
we feast, came his gravelled voice, deep and assured. the promise of meat, of bloodied snow, of caribou brought low beneath the crush of their jaws.
a pause, then: then fuck.
a demand as much as an inevitability.
he lowered his head to the tracks, scenting, and broke into a silent lope. their quarry was near. the cold had made them slow. heavy. ripe for taking.
his gaze did not drift from the trail—but the heat of her presence stirred at the edge of his awareness like fire licking just beyond reach.
soon.

She grunted in turn to him, one ear flicking as she continued her approach. They two had never needed words to understand one another. A reaffirmation—yes—you, here. 

His touch did little to ground, though ordinarily it would; Tikigâk was, at her tempered moments the day prior and the coming days to follow, an unlit fuse—he was the match when alive with flame. To touch turned her into an explosive thing that need not tick to warn when the end was near. 

But it was true that she hungered for meat, too—and the word hunt seemed to suspend detonation as she was reminded of the caribou tracks they had only just crossed. Tikigâk blinked, remembering—it was lucky she did not know the meaning of the word “fuck” even in the context of what was spoken, nor was she bright enough to understand the implication of it, else she would have forgotten again, and the hunt would have needed to wait until he quelled the flame he ignited. 

Tikigâk pressed forward. Her keen nose picked up the trail easily, though it helped the caribou were not so far and the tracks were fresh. Still, even had they not been Tikigâk was an exceptional tracker—sooner, later… they would be found. Fortune was good this day—she may not need to wait too long. 

She did not look to him, either… but she did not need to, to know the way in which he moved. Tikigâk could see it in her minds eye as she heard his gait—the expert way in which he moved, knowing every inch of the domain he had claimed. Hers, now, too—he had made it so. 

Tikigâk had not yet moved to make him bleed. Not yet. She wanted him, these first few days, at his fullest strength it seemed—unfatigued from the battle, virile, whole and hale. Tikigâk was gladder for it now, too—they were in prime condition to hunt. 

She remained aware of him, still wordless, and growing quieter still. Her own lope became near-soundless as they drew nearer to their prey, paws splayed upon the earth. Tikigâk remained infinitely aware of the man she now called mate (for to her, the question was not a question of if she would make him bleed, but when), one ear turning toward him.

faust was a shadow at her flank—long-legged and silent, his weight spread evenly across the terrain he knew as blood and bone. snow had melted to stone here, and he moved over it like the glacier itself had taught him. she led, and he let her, the scent of caribou still hot on the wind. a herd, likely. a small one, judging by the width of the trail, the sharpness of the scat.
his nose dipped once, confirming what tikigâk had already sensed. she was good. better than good. she was born to this. he could smell it in the way she tracked with certainty, not second-guessing, not blinking.
and so he followed.
they would drive the prey together.
his breath stayed measured, teeth clicking softly behind closed lips as he gauged the terrain ahead—a place of narrow slope and rock-wall, not ideal for a chase, but excellent for an ambush. he swept past her just once to glance up the ridge, then fell behind again. a silent signal. a different route.
you flush, i cut.
his pace quickened the moment her shoulder twitched. the caribou were close—he could feel it now, too. it would be bloody. it would be clean.
this was how darukaal fed. this was what made him kaan.

She picked up on his cue easily, answered it as she saw with him what was ahead. Tikigâk crouched low beneath the wind, watching the herd graze in a way which revealed they were still not wise to their presence. Tikigâk did not rush forward, not yet—she continued to wait and to watch as the herd members milled about. It would not be a long chase, which by no means meant easier—their time would be shorter to suss out the weak link within the caribou she scouted. 

There. One too-slow flick of the tail, indicating perhaps lethargy… from sickness, from age… her sharp gaze fell upon that herd member, a snipers accuracy. It stumbled at the edge. Yes—that was the one, the soft underbelly of the herd. 

Tikigâk moved only once the time was right. The herd did not know two from twenty—only that the hunt was on. Tikigâk made no noise as she barreled toward the herd that had bolted, ignoring the strong, weaving through, within—Tikigâk veered, driving toward the beasts she intended to flush out.

Always the limp, the lame… the last. The elders, or the prey with a broken step. The wolves knew as well as the wind that brought them this news that this past winter was their last. 

She carved that one from the herd, flushing, feeling her companion join her to cut them fully from the herd—they failed once in their immediate effort to rejoin their fellows, fearing the thunderclap of her bite. Her self-assured stride did not falter. 

Two flicks of her own ear. Now!—knowing the Kaan would know precisely what to do.

faust did not hesitate. the moment her ear twitched, his body shifted like an arrow loosed.
he veered right, cutting hard into the panicked pulse of the herd. a blunt force of motion, snow and soil churned beneath his charge. ahead, the caribou spun wide, but the wounded one—yes, she had picked true—was already faltering, hooves slipping over half-frozen mud, staggering with the tremble of age or illness in its bones.
he pressed in, flanking the weakened beast with precision. together, they had boxed it in. tikigâk drove from behind, lean and exacting as a knife; faust held fast at the front, driving it further off course with a lunge of bared teeth, snapping close enough to clip fur.
a breath.
then he surged.
he struck with the weight of all darukaal’s winters, slamming into the caribou’s shoulder, driving it to stagger. as it fell to a knee, faust’s jaws closed on the thick of the neck, just above the collarbone. he didn’t crush—not yet—he only held, anchoring the beast as it kicked, buying time for tikigâk to meet him.
this kill belonged to both. his grip was firm, breath hard in his lungs, eyes already burning toward her approach.

There he was. 

Adept as he was, he was swift to pick up on the target she had acquired—good. Not once had she doubted that he would, especially given he had previously proven himself capable. They worked together in perfect tandem, as though they had hunted together for years and years—it felt natural, to anticipate him there. To count on his understanding, to know he would deliver. 

And deliver he did. 

He swung in, steady and strong and unstoppable. She could taste the fear of the caribou that permeated the air, the wind in her face filled with the reek of its emotion. He fell into it as a tidal wave—it could not be avoided. The caribou faltered in its stagger, and the hammer of a man caught it as went down, but he did no more than that beyond hold it there, a titanic anchor that prevented the animal from drifting away even as it sought to tear itself out of his grip.

Her mate need not wait very long.

It took but a second for Tikigâk to meet him. Her jaws wrapped round the very place he had left bare for her, and in an expertly placed blow for all of her momentum, Tikigâk would finish the beast with him, quickly, cleanly—her own gaze burned in turn upon Faust, mouth pooling with warm blood.

the hunt was swift. coordinated. faust had known she would find the weakling—he had only to flank, drive, hold. the moment her ear flicked he was moving, a shadow crashing through snow and brush. his weight bore down like the glacier itself, and the beast staggered beneath it, caught in a dance it had no steps for.
he did not kill. not yet. he only held.
his strength pinned the caribou, muscles flexed in stillness, a silent offering to his counterpart. she came like fire in the cold, her fangs swift and final. flesh split beneath her jaws, and faust felt the animal sag beneath them both—first in resistance, then in release.
his eyes met hers across the bloodied hide. steady. unwavering.
the snow muffled all but the sound of breath and blood. and still, he did not speak. there was no need. they had done it together—without error. without waste.
he stepped back only once her kill was done, dragging a forelimb across his muzzle. then he grunted softly, approving.
we eat, he said at last, voice like distant thunder.
his gaze lingered. sharp. thoughtful.
you’re quick. precise.
a pause, almost wry.
i’ll take that over words any day.

Tikigâk felt the tension of its resistance, tight and taut, and then its utter stillness as its pulse beat no more, esophagus seized to swift asphyxiation. When it was done, she too released it, licking the blood from her chops before she stepped over the dead beast they had felled. We eat, he said. 

She sniffed at the foreleg he had used to swipe at his muzzle, then lifted her head up again to face him—he still watched her, and she stood a little taller for it, proud beneath his sharp gaze. 

His observations made were astute, and so she did not refute them—the other words were regarded first with a rumble of agreement. She would, too. Words are wind. They will not feed you, protect you, keep you warm, she answered the man who spoke like an impending storm, but on you—words are not wasted. 

Often, she thought speaking was a waste of time, of energy. It was not so when she was speaking with him—he had heard her voice more than any other in her lifetime. 

Tikigâk nipped his fur fondly, administering upon him her own rough brand of affection, before she moved to tear into their shared meal.

faust grunted low, a sound of agreement and satisfaction. her voice did not grate him the way others did—he welcomed the gravel in it, the wild simplicity, the way her meaning never needed dressing. she spoke truths as they were, clean and cold as the bones they would soon pick bare.
no, he echoed, head dipping to carve meat from tendon. not wasted.
her nip stirred a flicker in him—his own sharp gaze flicked sideways, steady on her, then returned to the carcass. it was not tenderness, not entirely. but it was his version of it. he leaned closer, brushing shoulder against hers as he tore a haunch free and set it before her.
they would feed. they would strengthen.
we’ll need more kills, he said, finally. you and i. spring comes. mouths grow. another pause. a glance. you hunt well.
that was praise, from a man who rarely gave it. then, quieter, more to the blood-warmed earth than to her: you stay strong, tikigâk. don’t soften.

Tikigâk regarded him with a keen gaze. Her season was not yet finished, but already—from the first night—she knew it was a guarantee. His seed would be undoubtedly be as strong as he was—and she was, at present, a fertile field. 

She was not tender, and would likely never be—it was not her way. Her affections, when given, was doled out physically. She knew no kind words to say that would soothe or comfort. Her own candor was similar to his own. 

The Darukaal woman gorged on the flesh of the beast, tearing into it while listening to him work at the flesh and bone himself. When he removed a haunch and placed it before her, Tikigâk paused in her consumption to peer at him wordlessly. She sensed the unspoken promise, saw again that she had chosen rightly. Even when she could no longer hunt, caring for their young, he would provide. 

No prey nor enemy can outrun us. We will have our kills, she answered in a promise of her own. She would hunt with him. She would fight with him. His compliment was answered with a proud roll of her shoulders and an appeased rumble, and sufficiently seduced, she rose to press against him. His heady scent filled her senses—now she told him, feast, her own low voice imbued with the fire of her season, you will need all of your strength, all of your energy, a wolfish grin presented itself upon her features for what was then on her own mind. He would know it well. 

Tikigâk listened to his next words, and was given pause. After several beats, she revealed to him this: The way of Tartok—only the strong survive. To grow soft is to invite death. I am no longer Anneriwok—but… it is still my way, it was what she knew. She would never become soft. And some things, such as that lesson, she would never outgrow. Tikigâk was not made to be soft. Truly, she was made for conquest—as were all sons and daughters of Tartok that chose their path. By now, it was too ingrained in her to be or become any different—her formative years had transformed her into something of a machine. 

But Tikigâk was glad—glad he liked her as she was. Preferred her. Because she could not change to become gentle, to become warm and inviting. 

And she would show him as much once he finished his meal, eyes unmoving and filled with that flame of desire upon him.

he tore into the kill with single-minded focus, jaw working methodically through sinew and meat, the heat of the fresh kill warming the cold that never quite left his bones. blood streaked his chin, dark against his fur, and his eyes flicked to her only when she pressed close—proud, powerful, and flush with purpose.
faust made no speech of thanks, but he offered what words he had:
you hunt like a creature born from war.
a grunt. approval. respect.
he pulled a strip of meat from the belly, rich and thick, and laid it near her paw. a gesture, not of softness, but of recognition. she was his equal. mate in the hunt. mate in war. mate in the season’s fire.
his breath was steady now, hunger waning only as her nearness stoked another kind. the command in her voice—feast, she’d said—earned a glance from beneath his brow. slow. burning.
he finished what remained of the flank with efficient ease, bone cracking between his teeth.
her next words brought a slow nod.
tartok breeds warriors. darukaal does not change that, his gaze pinned her, hard and unflinching. we are the same. we carve our place from the bone of what came before.
his shoulder brushed hers as he stood, licking the last of the blood from his teeth. the scent of her burned in the air, as much as the kill did.
i take hide, he said lowly, voice husky with what stirred in him. mate gets first hides— for den.
once she would be done, he'd cut the hairs of the caribou and let it soak in the melting snow, blood washing away in slow trickles. he stepped upon it, lifting his leg to urinate upon the furs, before goading her forward with a raise of his tail. for as all that he hungered, nothing compared to the sensation of her scent.

Her gaze slants toward him. It said in quiet answer, that is because I am. He was sharp-eyed, as the eagle and the hawk were known to be. While she gives him no words, there is apparent approval in her own gaze. Tikigâk recognizes in him his own strength and prowess. He is not only a great warrior, but a great hunter—a thing of great importance to her. She would count on him to keep her mouth full in the latest days of her pregnancy, and the earliest days of her whelping.

But she saw there was no cause to worry. Tikigâk felt no concern. 

As he placed the meat before her, Tikigâk watched him, saw him, with her own sharp eyes. She saw his recognition—a reaffirmation. Heat stirred in her belly at the look she shared with him. A primal thing, one that no known word in any spoken dialect could encompass. But then and there, they understood it. 

She could appreciate Darukaal—no, not could. She did. Tikigâk was Darukaal. Her teeth would shape that very bone he spoke of, now. 

Her gaze turned to the flesh he spoke of, but not for very long—his touch had relit the end of her fuse, and Tikigâk could not wait much longer! And yet, she wanted to watch him work; it seemed to matter, to mean something, and so she would support this act. 

Tikigâk had been born onto cold stone. She had never known the warmth of fur beneath her. 

Faust brought with him improvements—Tikigâk was curious. But watching him work increased her appetite toward him, so much so that by the time he approached Tikigâk was already standing and circling him, surging ahead only to lead him to another place to stake his claim thoroughly upon her. 

Not far from their hunt. Tikigâk could not wait so long, and would not.