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"You ever been hunting the old way?"
Rytlock throws his shot back, and the whiskey burns his throat just about as much as the setting sun does his eyes. He leans back on his stool and gives her a look.
"Sure, few times." Just about every charr had, at least once or twice. Usually something reserved for the youngsters. Get that pent up energy burnt in a way that no morning drill ever could. "Been about a decade." He scratches behind a horn. "Or two."
Strip off your plate armor and go running. Sink your fangs in. Bring back a fresh kill that your warband could fight over the best cuts of over a spit fire. Wasn't something he ever got too much into, really. Wasn't as much of a fan of gamey meat. But he knew Cyna was a different story.
She matches his position and leans back, her own drink long emptied, a look in her eyes. "Talked to a merchant yesterday. They made mention that some of the wild dolyak herds are finally migrating west of here. Wouldn't mind some help."
"Y'ever hunted dolyak?" Rytlock hums.
"No. You?"
"The wild ones? Big bastards. Meaner than the pack ones. Norn will take a whole party for just a couple of 'em. You aren't taking one down by yourself."
She grins, pointing between them. "No, but we can."
He has to laugh at that. "If you'd asked me ten years ago, maybe. But nah; I'm out for the count on crap like that anymore. Go ask Braham 'r something."
Braham was a sore spot, still. Rytlock wasn't even sure why he brought him up; the kid was still recovering. Physically. And mentally. They all were.
"I'm not asking Braham," Cyna says firmly, "I'm asking you."
He huffs. If one really needed the meat, then a gun or bow was just more efficient, plain and simple. But in this case, neither of them did. It wouldn't go to waste either way, sure, but Rytlock knew why she was ultimately asking. It was the same reason they were drinking together right now; more fun with company.
He swirls the contents of his fourth shot, looking down at the amber bubbles with a low, droning rumble in his chest. Not a good time to negotiate something like this. Mind addled.
He finally looks back up, catching Cyna's hard eyes. "And Reeva already said no?"
Her teeth grind a little as she looks away. Another sore spot. "Didn't ask. Won't ask."
"Right." He places a hand down on the table and leaves behind a few silver, sliding his remaining shot Cyna's way. She gives him a side-eye before her fingers wrap around it.
“So,” she brings the glass up to her lips, “what is it, Tribune?”
He hums. “Why the hell not.” Not like she hasn't pulled him into considerably worse. He'd even ask Crecia to come along if he knew she was so inclined. It was more of a warband activity, anyway. But he already knew what her answer would be, so he'd save it. “When were you planning on it?”
She flashes him a toothy smile. “Couple days from now. I can hold back longer if you need.”
“Nah, that sounds good. Was getting too stuffy here, anyhow.” He'd have to sharpen his claws. Maybe do some stretches; wasn't too fond of throwing his back out again.
But yeah, it was time to get out of Grothmar.
She'd been kicked in the head. If she wasn't charr, she wouldn't be here anymore.
As it stood, charr had very hard skulls. Had to. Headbutting was practically a sport among them. But a kick from a yak was still a different story. Cyna looked like she'd been in something a little worse than just a fistfight. The red drained down her face and into her ashy fur, speckling the snow beneath. By the time Rytlock helped her shamble to their makeshift camp, the bleeding had only just started to wane.
“Taste copper…” she croons as she looks around aimlessly, like she didn't realize her nostrils were faucets for the blood. Rytlock takes her snout in a hand and looks her in the eyes. She just laughs and pats his arm. “Rytlock. Your fur.”
“Shut up.” A growl drones from his throat as he shoves her back — not harshly, but enough that she almost tips on her already unsteady feet. She has a concussion. He didn't really even need to look to figure that out. “You idiot. I told you to leave that one.”
Her lips slide back to reveal more red as she gives a wide grin. “Wuz the biggest meat.”
The adrenaline and bleariness would wear off soon and she'd be a real hydra to deal with, so he'd just take her ramblings for now and give her the lecture later. As if it would do much. She had an elaborate history of instances like this before they'd even met — back when Rytlock was given more than a few reports regarding a certain soldier under his command that had a penchant for ignoring orders and almost always suffering some sort of bloody consequence for it, in the most literal sense.
He thought it was a good riddance when she and the rest of her warband fled from Blood to Ash. Until Duke Barradin.
Cyna absently hums an old marching melody as her tail thrashes to the rhythm in the snow. Rytlock finds himself humming along as he grabs his pack and pulls out Sohothin, poking it into the embers of their nearly-spent campfire.
“No weapons, no nothing — just fangs and claws,” Cyna had insisted before their outing. That was just for the hunt. But Rytlock would sooner shave his fur than go this far into the Shiverpeaks without some kind of weapon. Not for the dolyaks, but anything else that lurked around the corner. Icebrood still haunted the territory, even if their puppetmaster was now nothing more than spikes of ice spraying across Anvil Rock.
Soon, the campfire crackled anew but still hungered for fuel. He sheathes Sohothin at his belt and sits back, looking over toward Cyna again, who had the wit about her to shovel some snow up to her snout — the chill evidently numbing some of whatever pain must be becoming more apparent. Her bloodshot eyes screw shut with the pressure of her hand and a quiet hiss weaves through her teeth. He lets a chuckle escape him. Just the small one that he won't feel too bad for, because he knows that this entire trip won't amount to much of a lesson anyway after they head back — at least until Dokks catches sight of the new crook in their commander's nose.
Rytlock sighs and pulls his pack to his feet. “Y’hungry?” he asks. She doesn't give any indication that she heard him as he rifles through his cargo and pulls out some jerky. His stomach growls, but only because his mind wanders back to the dolyak and whatever fresh meat they could've been roasting over the fire right now instead of the plain and dried strips he's chewing.
Maybe he'd try fishing instead.
He could count on one hand the amount of times he'd gone fishing in his life and actually caught anything. But it couldn't go any worse than this.
After adequately nursing her nose, Cyna soon turns to him. “Do you have any—”
“No.”
“The hell was I going to say?” she growls, though the noise sounds less intimidating through her injury. He continues chewing and doesn’t look at her gnarly features. Hopefully the snow will keep the swelling down enough for them to actually do something about it soon.
“I’m not giving you any damn booze.”
“So you did bring some.”
Rytlock gives her a plain look. “You gonna fight me for it?”
She huffs and whips her head away from him like a cub. The quick action must’ve smarted because she hisses again and her hand comes up to her temple. He actually would give her some alcohol to pacify the pain, but he wasn’t about to let her pair that with a concussion of all things. The snow would have to do for now. He takes another bite of jerky and tosses a piece to Cyna, who just gives a grunt of thanks in lieu of anything else.
It didn’t feel like it did when he was younger, when it was only ever for the rush. When your claws dig into the dirt and you put all your weight behind that leap. Your teeth sink in for the death blow and blood meets your tongue. He didn’t get as far as that last step but it didn’t really matter to him anyway — because maybe that’s what living at the helm of apocalyptic scenarios innumerable will do to you. It all tastes like ash.
Or maybe the remaining embers were all but spent at Anvil Rock.
With a groan Rytlock gets to his feet, feeling his age. He thinks he’d be content to laze here in front of the flickering flame for another hour listening to Cyna mope and complain, but the fire needs fuel.