Golden Glade demuts

AW but maybe @Ātoztli?

The air was humid, stagnant, though there'd been a faint breeze of reprieve over the glade. It was mid afternoon by now, and Qvasir was hauling a large kill back with him.

A pronghorn.

A hefty size for a hefty man. He didn't seek retribution or praise, but he thought of returning the favor for the woman who seemed keen on wanting to fuck him. Or...other way around. He wasn't sure. She seemed rather forward, but he didn't even know her name.

The taste of the meat she gave him still lingered on his tongue.

she follows the dragmarks, coming upon the impressive hunter and his quarry with a spark of intrigue in her eyes.

they did not have such creatures in her homeland. rich cinnamon-auburn pelt, foxlike save the contrast of white as clean as a knife across its throat. black eyes. a strange dual protuberance atop its skull; fangs pointed backwards.

she runs a paw across its hide, marveling. what is this creature?

She appears quickly, as though she'd been watching him from the beyond. An ear flicks as she investigates the pronghorn, marveled at its figure, though he didn't think it was anything special.

Pronghorn, he says to her, watching how she ran a paw up its spine, save for the blood coating its delicate, fragile specimen, of a neck. He tucks a breath in from his throat.

Returning the favor.

such a grand gesture! atoztli’s eyes widen as she takes in the visual splendor of this creature; even the dews of blood display spectacular color. 

of this creature she must learn more. she runs a paw down its muscular haunch, up past its long gaskin, down the fluted ribcage holding offal. 

its magical properties must be learned; did its antlers share the same power as its cervine cousins? did a hoof pared down to its caulking bring good luck?

her gaze travels to the strapping hunter. tell me more of this creature.

He dipped his head slightly, acknowledging her curiosity before speaking.

They are swift creatures, built for the open plains, he began, voice measured and low. Not true antelope, but close enough. Their lungs are large, their hearts strong—built to run for miles without tiring. He gestured toward its horns, dark and curved, unlike the branching antlers of a deer. These are shed, unlike most, regrown each year. A rare thing.

His gaze flickered back to her, watching for how she absorbed the knowledge. Their bones are light, their sinew tight. A body made for flight. But their spirit— He exhaled, glancing at the beast’s lifeless form. It is stubborn. They do not fall easily.

He fell silent then, allowing her to process, waiting to see what more she wished to know.

atoztli hungrily listens as qvasir speaks, the bend of her velveteen ear betraying the intensity of her interest.

they sound like the guanacos of her homeland. swift. surefooted. difficult to kill.

but who really can blame those under the knife? very few souls wish to die.

their bones light like those of guanaco or deer; some distant cousin, then. strong hearts. every bit of them useful, in atoztli's estimation.

she walks around the felled beast, running a slim paw along the great cleft of skull; the spiraling horns.

how did this one die?

Qvasir’s gaze followed Atoztli’s movements, his expression stoic, though his eyes sharpened with a subtle pride. He respected those who knew the value of a kill—the weight of taking life.

His voice was steady, low, carrying the simplicity of a soldier’s report. I snapped its neck.

There was no need for embellishment. The act had been swift—clean. The mountain goat had fought, as all things did when faced with death, but Qvasir’s jaws had been stronger. Precise. The crack of bone still echoed faintly in his mind.

He glanced at her, measuring her reaction, before his gaze returned to the carcass. It was a good death.

a good death, claims the mountaineer. atoztli doesn't doubt it. if only they all could be so lucky.

she steps back from the auburn body, expression speculative.

where i come from, there are creatures like these but different. guanaco. taller. slim. she motions to the spiraling protuberance no horns

but they are fast. they run, she makes a motion with her paw and laughs, as one does when acknowledging the futile. they have thick skin on their necks and it is not so easy, not to say this one had been simple! her gaze flickers to qvasir, measuring. so we run them off cliffs. they flee and they fall. the teeth of the valley do the work. i am thinking, is not so good death to be guanaco.

Qvasir listened, his expression impassive but attentive. He let her words settle, considering the image she painted—creatures like this, but taller, slimmer, without horns. Fast, yet foolish enough to run themselves to their own demise.

When Atoztli laughed, he did too, a low, quiet chuckle, the kind that rumbled from the chest—amused but not mocking.

No, he agreed, glancing at the fallen beast before them. It is not good to be guanaco.

His gaze lingered on her, noting the way she measured him, the way she spoke of the hunt as both strategy and inevitability. She understood the ways of death, how to bring it swiftly or let the land do the work for her.

But I imagine it's good to be the one driving them over the edge.

easy company, this.

she settles into a rhythm of work; strips flesh back here, sets aside meat there.

all the while she explains to him the purpose of each: the heart, the liver, the spleen.

when it is all done the majestic animal is hardly more than pieces of carnage from an abbatoir. blooded but done, atoztli prepares for the ritual in the coming day.

but it is the heart and pelt-skin she keeps for herself, knowing their use comes at a later date.

i'll fade this <33 lmk if u want a future thread!