Duskfire Glacier maeth

mercenary trade!

The morning was still, caught between the breath of frost and the murmur of melt. In the thin light, the spires of Darukaal stretched long across the snow, casting shadows like old scars across the white.
Astier moved through them like one born of them; silent, unhurried, deliberate. The wind stirred his pale coat as he walked, a whisper trailing behind him rather than footsteps. The bruising of stormclouds gathered on the horizon, but he did not glance up. His mind was elsewhere: on steel, on blood, on what was to come.
He found Faust not far from the training slopes, the air thick with the scent of sweat and old snow; where wolves tested themselves, again and again, until the mountain remembered their names. Astier did not bow. He did not offer pleasantries. Only stood, that spectral gaze fixed firm upon the older wolf’s flank until it was met: „I would test the edge of my discipline,” the Wraith said, low and quiet. „The war approaches.” He had done so with Blackfell a few days earlier, and he would do so once more with the Kaan himself. 
„You’ve seen the glacier’s bones, @Faust. Teach me how not to break.” War was not the sole reason he sought strength.

we can start rolling in your next post!

faust turned at the sound of astier’s voice, gaze cold and calculating. the snow gave beneath his weight as he stepped toward him, the slope behind casting long shadows down the ridge.
a long breath left his nose. not a sigh—just control.
then fight me, he said simply.
his eyes swept over the wraith’s lean frame, noting the stillness in his limbs, the coiled control beneath the surface. calm—quiet—but not soft. no, astier carried a blade beneath that silence. faust would see how sharp it was.
he circled once, don’t hold back, he warned. if you fall, it better be with blood in your teeth.
then, with the low rumble of thunder in his chest, he lunged—testing. watching. learning the boy’s rhythm. not to humiliate, but to hone. to teach him the glacier did not forgive weakness. not even in men like them.

rolled a 10 as a start!
lmk if not ok <3

Astier does not answer. Instead, he shifts his stance, slight, deliberate, a pivot of one hind paw, the quiet brace of his limbs against the slope’s soft give. His tail stills, held low, balanced; ears swept back in cold concentration. His breath is a ghost between them, fleeting and white.
As Faust lunges, the Wraith moves, fluid, sharp. Not back, but forward; he meets the thunder with silence, slipping low beneath the weight of it. One shoulder drops, a feint, before he surges upward with sudden force. His aim is not brute impact, but precision; an attempt to slam his shoulder beneath Faust’s chest, to unseat his footing and shift the rhythm of the dance. He strikes with intention, not to win, but to learn. To push and be pushed in return.

good with me! astier hits. rolling 1d20+2 for defense, 1d20+1 for offense (given his skills.). d: 5 a: 20 crit hit!

the hit lands.
astier’s shoulder slams into him, a deft strike—calculated and clean. it jars faust’s footing for a beat, his claws digging into the loam, breath forced from his chest in a sharp snort. the wraith was fast—faster than most. but the kaan was made for the counter.
he doesn’t stagger. doesn’t pause.
instead, with a sharp pivot, faust twists into the momentum, harnessing the shift rather than resisting it. a dark blur of muscle and frost, he lets the motion carry him halfway around—then strikes.
his head drops low, teeth snapping upward in a brutal arc aimed for the shoulder that had just struck him. a growl rumbles from deep in his chest as his jaws clamp down—hard. flesh gives. blood bursts warm into his mouth. he does not linger, but tears free with the sound of shearing skin, leaving a harsh rake of crimson behind. a mark.

d is pretty useless here but rolled nonetheless!
def: 7 / atk: 20 crit hit!
revenge time ahahah

The Wraith snarls, sharp and involuntary, when teeth find purchase. Fire lances through the pale flesh of his shoulder as Faust tears free, blood welling fast and hot against the cold spring air. It stains the fur like spilt ink across parchment, vivid and sudden. But he does not falter.
Astier reels back only a step, breath shuddering from him in a hiss. The pain is acknowledged, not feared. His eyes, icy and unreadable, never leave the other man's form. Then he moves, swift and silent, a flicker of pale fur and coiled strength.
He lunges, but not head-on. One paw skims the ground in a feint, distraction, while his weight shifts, surging to the side. He twists around Faust’s left flank, aiming low, low beneath the guard of his ribs. His jaws snap out, precise as a blade, seeking the vulnerable line of muscle just behind the foreleg. Not a wound to maim, but to mark. A test of speed, and skill, and the quiet fury that now smolders beneath his ribs.
The glacier may not forgive weakness; but it remembers strength.

didn't roll defense since crit, 1d20+3! a: 17

faust feels the bite land, the heat of it sharp through muscle—but he does not flinch. his weight shifts with the momentum, shoulder rolling into the blow rather than away from it. flesh tears, a shallow score—earned, and acknowledged.
but the kaan is not done.
with a grunt, he pivots hard on his hind leg, bracing against the pain. his jaws swing with brutal efficiency, low and fast, seeking to slash across astier's flank—just beneath the spine, where skin is thinner. a warning, not a death blow. not yet.
he doesn’t speak. there’s no need.
his body does the talking—each strike a sentence, each step a declaration. this is what faust is made for.

def: 3 / atk: 8

The blow lands with a force that nearly lifts him from his feet—sharp, unrelenting, perfectly placed. Faust’s teeth carve across his flank, cutting shallow but true, and the sting of it blossoms bright beneath Astier’s hide. The air leaves him in a low, guttural breath, half-snarl, half-steadying grit. 
But he does not falter.
Pain anchors him; it sharpens, steadies, steels. He turns with it, never away, using the torque of the strike to pivot, to regain footing. And then he lunges, low and fast, not with the devastating precision of before, but with a flicker of resolve behind his strike. Teeth snap for Faust’s shoulder, a feint more than a finishing blow, a bid to test his guard; reminding him the Wraith is not so easily cast in shadow. Not yet.

d: 7, a: 16!

the strike lands hard—sharp pain lances through his shoulder, sinking in deep enough to draw blood, but not so deep as to shake him.
faust grunts, the breath driven from his chest in a short burst. he staggers, one step, two—then sets.
and turns.
the retaliation comes without a word—swift and merciless. faust's weight shifts, and he barrels forward with the full brunt of muscle and momentum behind him, jaws snapping not for a feint but for the base of astier’s neck. not to kill—but to claim. to show the difference between strength hard-earned and strength honed in shadow.
his growl rises low from the pit of his gut, thunder pressed through grit teeth.
he would bleed, yes.
but he would not lose.

since it's a spar we can get him up to 5 posts for you to add to your skill log, then maybe do a second? up to you, just want to help with trades hehe

yes please!! thank you so much <3
def: 20 / atk: 6

Astier does not yield. The moment Faust barrels forward, a cold snap runs through him, not of fear, but of clarity. The Wraith twists with the momentum, lean frame coiling tight, and the jaws that lunge for his neck snap through open air. Astier has vanished from the path of the blow, ghosting aside at the last second, the glint of fangs brushing just the fringe of his fur. He does not speak. His breath spills in steady rhythm, despite the blood that slicks his shoulder.
Then; he returns the gesture. A flicker of motion, less forceful than before, a sweep of his body meant to test. His jaws snap, not for the shoulder, but lower, toward the Kaan’s foreleg. A fleeting strike, not deep, not cruel, but meant to unseat, to prod at his balance. A flicker of challenge from beneath the mask of stillness.

d: 12 (1d20+1), a: 22 (1d20+2) end of spar! i can make a new one.

faust feels the shift as astier dodges his strike, the air cracking with the rush of missed contact. the flash of movement catches him, a sliver of moonlight gleaming in astier's eye, and for a moment, faust’s strike cuts only air. the cold snap of realization runs through him. he isn’t just sparring with a skilled opponent—this is a test, a sharpening of the edges.
he feels astier’s response before the attack lands, the fluid motion as he sweeps in low, jaws snapping just below his shoulder. faust shifts, his body twisting, narrowly avoiding the bite, the brush of teeth scraping against his fur. a low growl rumbles in his chest, but there’s no frustration in it—only the thrill of the fight.
his gaze sharpens, tracking the ghost of astier’s movements. faust’s instincts flare, and in that brief flicker, he lunges—quick, precise, his teeth sinking into the side of astier’s neck, the force of his bite not to maim, but to claim, to mark the end of the spar.
the moment hangs, breath heavy between them, the adrenaline still buzzing in his veins. faust pulls back just enough, his jaws loosening, but his eyes remain sharp, the challenge still burning. good fight, he mutters, voice low, gravelly, satisfaction echoing in his tone.

Astier does not resist the final blow. The bite lands firm against the side of his neck, not cruel, but decisive. A final, wordless decree. He stands through it, snow shifting beneath steady paws, and when Faust draws back, the Wraith does not stagger. Blood wells faint where fangs had pressed, but his head remains lifted, breath misting quietly between them.
A flick of his ear. A pulse of breath through flared nostrils. He meets the Kaan’s gaze, unshaken and unreadable, then he nods once. Not in defeat, but in understanding, acceptance. There’s no sharp retort, no sulking silence; only the gleam of something that lingers behind the frost of his eyes. A promise. He would return. And next time, it would not end the same.
Without a word, Astier steps back into the cold, already half-lost in the mist that clings to the glacier’s edge, shoulders stiff but unbowed. The snow drinks his blood, but his spirit remains untouched.