Noctisardor Bypass baelor

@Uktark and/or other GF recruits

in morning, the slumbering beast pulls himself from the high mountainside den. careful to not disturb the sleeping forms of his wife and her daughter when he moves from the entrance, silent sentinel to protect.

it is early dawn when he leaves for his patrol. the sky above bleeds an amalgamation of blood citrus and lilac feather, perforated by thick clouds gathering close. his dark frame cuts through the fog as he lumbers slowly across the high ridge.

down into the valley below where hard-packed snow settles beneath his weight. the blackbird moves with muted thuds for pawsteps, and a distant croak tugs at one ear. a cutting of his gaze, and he sees the raven swooping down over the distant hill.

unknown to him, it perches upon the thick hide of uktark's ruff and preens at him.

uktark stills when the raven settles, weight accepted without flinch. his ear turns, jaw setting as the croak sinks in for what it is.
a summons.
he exhales once through his nose, fog curling thick in the cold air. there is a glance back toward the mountainside den, toward warmth and sleep and what he guards now, before he turns away.
the sangilak angles downhill, dark shape slipping into the valley’s spine, following the bird where it leads.
blackfell has called.
uktark answers.

---

he watches with an unfeeling gaze as his cousin's broad form appears on the horizon. the raven moves in a short few strides to place itself back upon blackfell, head cocking, a single red eye watching as the two dark wolves rise to meet one another.

when they are close enough, to uktark, blackfell gives an exasperated look. a jerk of his head, chin feathering where snow and ice collects in his fur and his eyes rolling. a wordless admittance of his griefs.

and he steps past the sangilak, a nudge of his nose to his shoulder before continuing on. falling into the trail they have carved in several mornings following the same patrol route. a twitch quivering its way along the length of blackfell's spine, a nip from the passing frigid wind.

he wants nothing more than to momentarily forget of morwenna and her half-breed children.

---

uktark does not need words to understand.
he matches blackfell’s pace without comment, shoulder brushing once in return before he falls in beside him. the grievances are familiar. a strong woman. a sharp will. a life that never quiets. his jaw tightens, not in irritation—but in something close to envy.
a wife.
his thoughts drift, unbidden, to nephele resting beneath stone and wind, to fuyao’s bright defiance by the river. almosts. maybes. nothing claimed.
he exhales through his nose and marks as they walk, deliberate, territorial. piss steams against snow and stone alike, reclaiming ground where he can. where he must.
his gaze stays forward, unfeeling as the ridge ahead.
he marches on with blackfell, saying nothing, sharing the silence like a burden both know how to carry.

love the gif!

---

his scenting persists into the cold frost, searching for anything out of the ordinary. it does not come, not yet, and his clipped ears twitch and lay flat against his head in distate.

his mind is a burgeoning dam, with emotions and thoughts he knows are cruel but cannot withstand. war has come to pass, but blackfell finds himself unhappy.

he can bury himself in his duties as much as he likes, but it does not change that. he presses black shoulder to black shoulder and huffs, a fog of mist in the quiet.

still, he says. no sign of your moondancer?

a stilling inquiry as they tread up one hill of the valley and continue to pave trodden steps into their desire path.

---

uktark stops.
it is not gradual. it is a hard, abrupt halt that snaps the line of their patrol. his head lifts, nostrils flaring, and then—without warning—he lunges.
a deadfall log shatters beneath his weight. rotten wood explodes as his jaws clamp down and tear, splinters flying while his shoulder drives through it again, and again, until the thing is nothing but wreckage ground into the snow. his breath comes ragged, steam pouring from him like smoke from a burn pit.
he stands there heaving, chest tight, eyes blazing with something uncontained.
why? he snaps, the word torn raw from his throat. his head jerks skyward, then down again, teeth grinding. why must they slip from my fingers?
moondancer—gone.
satori—disappeared.
lousine—vanished.
tikigak—dead.
ayovi—turned away by choice.
his voice drops, breaks at the edge, rage folding inward where it has nowhere left to go.
i do everything right, he growls. i give. i protect. i bleed.
he turns back to blackfell then, finally, eyes dark and unguarded.
and still—they leave.