Jade Fern Grove threading the needle

maybe @Uktark? <3
other potential Grey Fangs members welcome!

The forest floor, usually a riot of soft greens and lush ferns, lay entombed under a heavy blanket of snow. The canopy above, formed by tall, thin trees standing like iron bars against the sky, filtered the weak winter sun into pale, hazy beams that offered little warmth. The air was still, stripped of the summer's symphony of crickets, leaving only the biting wind to whistle through the branches. It was a frozen, silent kingdom, stark and unforgiving; and it suited Ivana perfectly.

The massive woman moved through this monochrome world like a shadow detached from its caster. Her dark coat cut a sharp contrast against the blinding white drifts, a gradient of charcoal and slate that seemed to absorb the meager light. She stepped with deliberate precision, her heavy paws breaking the crust of the snow with a rhythmic crunch, her posture tall and unyielding against the chill. She felt no need to rush; the cold had slowed the world down to her pace, turning the flat terrain into a testing ground for the weak.

She came to a halt near the edge of a winding creek, its waters sluggish and choked by thick shelves of ice. Her pale, piercing eyes narrowed, scanning the gaps between the tree trunks, searching not for beauty, but for the slightest twitch of life, a foolish weasel or a slow-moving partridge exposing itself in the drifts. Her ears swiveled forward, catching a faint snap of a twig in the distance. A low, misty breath escaped her black lips; patience was the only law that mattered in this season, and she obeyed it with lethal discipline.

the snap of twig found him first.
uktark lifted his head from the wind-swept hollow, scent rolling thick and dark across his tongue—cold iron, muscle, discipline. female. large. capable. not prey.
his jaws clacked once, twice, a reflex born of focus as foam bubbled faintly at his jowls. he did not hide. did not soften. instead, he stepped forward into the open, snow crunching beneath his weight, tail flagging high and steady in unmistakable confidence.
eyes fixed on her shape through the trees, posture tall and claiming.

As the northman stepped into the open, Ivana turned her head slowly, the movement deliberate and fluid, like the shifting of a glacier. She watched him emerge with a gaze that was terrifyingly void of emotion. Her pale, ice-blue eyes locked onto his, dissecting him in a heartbeat; noting the size, the muscle, and the bubbling foam at his jowls.

Where he was hot, clacking jaws, twitching energy, she was absolute zero.

She did not crouch, did not bare her teeth in a defensive snarl. Instead, she drew herself up to her full, considerable height, the thick ruff of fur at her neck bristling just enough to make her silhouette even more imposing. Slowly, her own tail rose, not waving, but held stiff and plumed behind her; a silent, aristocratic counter-claim to the air he thought he owned.

The valkyrie let the silence stretch between them, heavy and suffocating, before she finally spoke. Her voice was a low, smooth alto, rough with the texture of a growl but clear as a bell.

„You drool, stranger,” she observed coldly, her eyes flicking to the foam at his mouth before returning to his eyes. „I assume you have the control to swallow it before you address me.”

uktark did not bristle at her words.
he moved instead, circling her just outside the reach of teeth, snow compressing beneath his weight. his eyes stayed level with hers, reading balance, breath, the steadiness in her stance. she was strong. that much was plain. not brittle. not foolish.
his jaws worked once more, foam gathering—then he turned his head and spat into the snow between them. a dark, wet mark against white. dismissal of the comment, not the wolf.
he stopped at her flank, tail high, posture unyielding.
strength, he said at last, voice rough and unused, nothing wasted.
his gaze lingered a heartbeat longer, then slid away, already measuring the land beyond her.
she spoke much.
he did not.

Ivana did not allow him to linger at her flank. To permit a stranger, especially one of such volatility, to stand in her blind spot was a tactical error she would never commit.
As he stopped and looked away, she pivoted. It was a sharp, military motion, her hindquarters swinging around so that her chest and teeth were once again squared directly against him. She would not be circled like cattle. The valkyrie re-established the line of sight, forcing him to look at her or actively ignore a predator facing him head-on.
Her gaze dropped briefly to the dark stain of spit in the snow, her upper lip curling just enough to reveal the pristine white of a canine in a sneer of distaste. It was a crude gesture, fitting for a man who spoke in grunts.
„And silence,” she corrected smoothly, her voice dropping an octave, colder than the wind biting at their fur. „You lack the discipline to stand still, and the breeding to keep your fluids to yourself.”
She took a single, deliberate step forward, invading the personal space he had just tried to claim, challenging him. „Strength and control are common in the north. Do you have that? or are you just muscle and spit?”

uktark did not rise to her challenge.
he did not bare teeth, nor swell himself larger than he already was. instead, he watched her with a flat, unreadable stare, the kind that weighed more than any snarl. her words washed over him—sharp, rehearsed, loud with intent.
crownore bred, the thought passed, unspoken.
tartok made.
his shoulders lifted in a small shrug, almost careless. a dismissal, not of her—but of the need to answer with noise.
then he turned.
not away from her, but toward the trees, stepping off with the expectation that she would follow if she wished to understand. a few lengths on, he slowed, angling through a break in the brush where the snow had been churned and darkened.
the bull elk lay there, massive even in death. rack intact, antlers filled and heavy, neck torn open cleanly. no waste. no struggle dragged out longer than needed.
uktark stopped beside it and looked back at her once.

Ivana waited a heartbeat longer than necessary, ensuring her movement was her own choice rather than an act of following. She stepped into the churned snow of the clearing, her pale eyes ignoring the wolf to focus entirely on the work he had done.
The valkyrie circled the elk once, her nose skimming the steam still rising from the open throat. She noted the lack of struggle, the precision of the strike, and the sheer size of the prize. It was a kill made by someone who understood that energy was a resource not to be wasted. She stopped across from him, the massive carcass between them, and looked up. Her expression remained a mask of frozen slate.
„Clean,” she murmured, the word a low, cold rasp of approval. She offered no softening, no shift in her stance as she looked from the kill back to him.
„Strength indeed,” she echoed, mirroring his own word with a flat, challenging tone. He had proven he could kill, but her icy stare remained fixed on him, searching for the crack in his armor. He had shown her a meal, but he had yet to prove he could stand his ground.

he meets her stare once—steady, unflinching—then turns away from the carcass as if it is already decided, already beneath concern. his shoulder angles, presenting his flank, his back, the long line of scar and muscle that has known antler, claw, blade. no defense. no flinch.
a step back. then another.
he plants his paws in the churned snow and stills, broad chest open to her, to the clearing, to whatever she would test him with. the wind combs through his fur; he does not move.
prove? he says at last, quiet. not mocking. not proud.
a short huff through his nose.
i stand.