4/25/2025, 8:24 PM
SKILL Ranger 2/5
the air shifted—an unfamiliar shape against a backdrop of what had become familiar: the thunder of water over stone, the rise and fall of tikigâk’s shoulders as she stalked, river-wet and hot with season, and the slow turn of the highlands beneath spring’s bloom. he’d felt the presence before he saw it. something low, coiling. a step too soft to be accidental.
when his eyes found the stranger, the weight of them stayed there. heavy. unmoved.
she was not like the others who had passed them by. she came too close. too knowingly. her gaze spoke of games, of riddles best left unanswered. and faust, carved of colder things, had no patience for riddles.
he moved downriver a pace, positioning himself above her in plain view. the dark tower of him glinted against the sun where it slipped between pine and mist, and still, he said nothing.
but then—he hiked a leg.
the stream below steamed where his piss struck the stone, scent marking their claim with brute, undeniable force. this is mine, the act said. all of it. the water, the earth, the woman who pulls fish from the shallows. there was no need for words.
a low growl rumbled deep in his chest. he did not bare his teeth. there was no flash of white, no raised hackles—just the certainty of a man who would kill without hesitation if the air shifted wrong.
he glanced once to tikigâk, then back to the stranger.
she could drink.