༄ do you hear the gods whispering?

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traversing the frozen land was an easy feat. they were men, strong ones, and they would not fall to the simple whims of nature. they were meant for more, and more they would attain. but it was because of zharko's strength that he itched. he was a man, a strong and virile man, who had spent what felt like centuries without something he craved—something he needed.

they had one woman amidst them both. the blood woman he had yet to meet, but as much as his brothers might wish it, zharko was not a man who shared. he needed his own, a woman of his own choosing—a strong woman just as she was submissive. they'd yet to find any women of any sort. it was as if the land was barren of a feminine touch, forged instead by the decaying souls of men who craved violence over desire. he wished for both.

he'd just as much drown in blood as he would lust—as he would in a pretty-pelted woman.

it was why he itched now as they crested another small hill towards the herd. irritability crept beneath his skin, lurching out at every threat of impatience or annoyance along their journey. he was surprised he hadn't ripped into himself to quench the desire with the presence of pain.

but then it was there, when he was at the side of dragomir, that zharko's interest piqued. she was a petite thing, cloaked in the soft throws of ash and squirming amidst the hard ground. “chiori.” woman. it was as much an observation as it was a greeting when he'd slowly approached.

her eyes were pale. head small as it shook with an adamance that urged his brow to raise. was she...what was she doing? “get yatholat.” — get up. they did not have time for disorientation, let her rise so they might see all of her. “to feet.”

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