The forest unfolded before them, a landscape etched with an eerie stillness. Arne and Bjorn pressed on through the snow-laden paths, the chill biting at their exposed skin despite layers of protection. This was the quietest part of the woods, a place where the yelk-like creatures once roamed freely and the lithe cat-foxes darted among the underbrush. Yet, in recent months, an unnatural silence had settled over the land, as if the wildlife had retreated to secret, unreachable sanctuaries. Still, the hunters moved forward, undeterred by the absence of life around them.
Bjorn, the elder of the two, stood a few inches shorter than Arne, his frame lean yet tempered by the strength of a seasoned hunter. His body spoke of years spent fighting the cold and conquering the unforgiving terrain. Now in his thirtieth year, Bjorn bore the testament of battles on his weathered face—a deep scar etched from temple to jawline, carved by the savage claws of a gigantic stone-bear during the reckless days of his youth.
His eyes, dark brown and set close together, flickered like frozen embers beneath brows knitted from years of hardship. Curls of midnight-black hair, unruly yet well-kept, framed his rugged face, occasionally brushing against the protective mask he wore. A beard of the same inky hue, dense and wild, lent him an air older than his true age, a shadow that accentuated the hard angles of his jaw. A snotty nose protruded slightly, reddened by the cold and peeking out between the folds of his mask.
Bjorn did not care for beauty; such thoughts were as fleeting as warmth in their world. His clothes were a pale, winter-white, crafted for camouflage and endurance, equipped with an arsenal of tools clipped to his belt—a tribute to necessity. Ropes, picks, and other climbing gear hung from his person, the clinking metals echoing faintly with each step.
Arne, younger by a few years, carried the sinewy strength of his twenty-six years. He shared Bjorn's white garb, stitched and reinforced to survive the harsh climate, but unlike his companion, a sturdy carabiner connected him to a bulky bag containing the fruits of their labor—a fallen beast, lifeless and cold.
Arne's face, still unmarred by the deep scars that marked the older hunters, was smoother, better preserved against time's cruel edge. Yet, his expression told a different story. His eyes, green as a cypress, burned with a sharp, restless energy, their intensity hinting at a rage that seldom found an outlet. His dark hair, long and tied in a tail, jutted out from under the heavy hood of his cloak, trailing down like the end of a whip.
Where Bjorn's features bespoke resilience and cautious leadership, Arne's countenance was hard and combative. He always wore an expression as if daring the world to challenge him—a mask of perpetual defiance. He was the stronger of the pair, a force of raw power, but without the tempered wisdom that cool head bestowed. Bjorn led with the burden of knowledge, while Arne followed, a relentless shadow.
Despite their differences, the bond between the two was carved from the same ice and stone that shaped their world. Bjorn's gaze swept the path ahead, every muscle attuned to the slightest movement in the periphery. Arne, at his side, mirrored his vigilance, the stubborn set of his jaw suggesting he would fight even the forest itself if provoked.
They were hunters and providers. In this frigid expanse where the sun's light splintered like shards of glass on the snow, fear had no place. Only purpose drove them forward, like wolves bound by duty to a silent, immutable code.
Arne knelt beside the fallen beast, its fur matted with frost and blood. The air seeped through the seams of his gloves, biting into his calloused hands. He stared at the carcass, fingers stained with the crimson proof of their labor. "Bjorn," he began, his voice barely more than a whisper against the wind that swept between the ancient pines, "how are we going to share the food?" His eyes, sharp as obsidian, narrowed beneath the weight of the question. "We've always done it the same way. Equal portions for all. Not a single part shall go to waste."
Bjorn's eyes, those cold brown coals, did not waver as he looked to the snow-laden branches above, their limbs sagging with the burden of winter. He exhaled, the vapor curling in the space between them. "Times have changed," he said, the syllables falling heavy and deliberate. "The children—they need more. Their growing bodies, their hungry mouths. They are our future, Arne. Their laughter, scarce as it is, is the only melody that keeps the darkness at bay."
A shadow crossed Arne's face. He shifted his weight, his knees sinking deeper into the snow, and cast a fleeting glance at the bulging sack. "And the women?" His voice had a rough edge, each word brittle as ice. "They've carried the weight of this world as much as we have. They've sewn the cloaks, warmed the fires, tended to the wounded when we returned with torn skin and splintered bones."
Bjorn's expression softened, as if touched by a memory long past. His eyes reflected a depth that spoke of years when he had watched mothers cradle their children in rooms colder than graves. "Women are resilient," he said, a note of reverence in his tone. "They are the keepers of our hearts. They shall eat after the children. We can't afford selfishness, not now."
A bitter wind cut through the trees, and Arne shivered despite himself. "What about the other men?" His voice trembled, the protest half-born of desperation. "They're the guardians, the protectors of this community. They need strength, Bjorn. Their arms hold back the beasts that prowl these woods."
Bjorn's gaze met Arne's, the fire of unyielding resolve burning there. "Strength," he said slowly, each word a stone laid with finality, "is more than just muscle. Strength is adaptability, knowing when to yield so that others may stand tall. They will eat what remains, and they will make do. The fur will warm them, the bones will heal them. Waste nothing, Arne. That has always been our way."
Arne's fists clenched, the leather of his gloves groaning in protest. A flurry of emotions surged beneath his mask—a silent revolt against the shifting balance, the weight of choices made by necessity, not by will. His breath came fast, misting the air.
"And me and you Bjorn" he said, the words sharp with sarcasm, standing up to look Bjorn in the eye, "we shall feast on what? The tough cuts, the sinew that sticks between teeth, the meager scraps that mock our effort? We're the hunters, the providers. Without us, the fires would go cold, and the laughter you prize so much would fall silent."
Bjorn's gaze hardened, the muscles in his jaw tightening. He stepped forward, the crunch of snow beneath his boots the only sound in the expectant silence. "My word is last," he said, his voice echoing with the authority of ancient customs. "Survival is our creed, Arne. Tradition holds our community together, even if it frays at the edges. We lead not just by what we take, but by what we give. Remember that."
The space between them crackled with unspoken tension, a gulf where duty and pride warred silently. The forest around them, draped in its shroud of ice and shadow, seemed to lean in, listening.
And so they stood, two souls bound by necessity and burdened by sacrifice, their breath mingling in the bitter air. Without another word, they turned back to the path, their footprints trailing behind like the ghost of a promise soon swallowed by the forest's frozen maw.