Lost Creek Hollow without you

As each day passed, the sky became greyer, the air becomes chilly, and the world around her no longer holds the colors it once had. The change in seasons suits the mindset she’s been settled in for weeks, existing from one day to the next with nothing in mind. Occasionally, she finds something to eat, but her time alone has minimized any desires to continue on. Her fur has lost the life to it, sparse in areas and tufts plucked near her hips. Dull green eyes are sunken in and skeletal face moves stiffly. She doesn’t have any destination in mind but something pushes her onward. She knows she isn’t far from death but the flicker in the back of her mind remains, keeping her going with as little as possible.

She’d taken refuge in an old den in the hollow the last few days, trying to keep warm. Her thin fur does little to retain body heat and her atrophied muscles don’t work as well to generate anything either. Most of the time, she remains in one place underground to preserve what little she has and reframe from expelling more energy than she has.

This particular morning, however, her mind is difficult to stop. It stretches its grasp into the rest of her body, giving her a restless ache to remain still. She untangles her gangly legs and awkwardly slinks from the den out into the open. The few trees behind her leave her in shadow as the sun rises and the empty pasture before her offers little possibilities. Her stomach rumbles as it has for a while yet and she begins to move along the tree line, searching for even the faintest trail.

For the first time in some time Wardruna’s belly is full, perhaps to the point of being uncomfortably so. Being a pack wolf had it’s perks and he could pretend to be as prideful as he wanted but when he is offered food to assist in regaining his strength so he can re-learn how to hunt ( and fight ) despite the lost of the vision in his left eye he does not refuse. He ate until he nearly threw it back up and then set out to find, hopefully something to bring back to the cache. Something to replace what he’s eaten. The northerner might be a savage in many respects but he believes in ‘an eye for an eye’ and he refuses to return until he’s caught something for them. The trees of the unknown territory he enters are tall, like cathedral pillars rising towards the heavens: shaded, the air cooler though it is already chilled enough. Winter might very well be breathing down the neck of these villtum; Wilds as they call it in the common tongue.

Wardruna comes across a trail: fresh but not of woodland creature and without actually realizing it he adjusts his course until his paws carry him to her. She is tall and slender, moreso than the northerner would guess was natural for her: her pelage dappled in browns, reds and blacks though it is lackluster and missing tufts at her hips. His gaze lingers there for a moment longer before it slides back up to what little he can make out from her side profile and he lets out a low chuff to announce his presence in case she has yet to notice him as he stalks lurks a good bit away from behind.

Nothing sparks her interest, nor does anything cross her path, and so she continues on aimlessly for a while as her mind drifts to something else. The territory had been empty of wolf scents for the few days she’d been here and while the wind blows against her face, she remain unaware of the wolf behind her. When he chuffs, she flinches, ears flattening and she shrinks a little until she can see who is behind her. Slowly, she turns to see the youthful appearance of a well-built grey wolf but at their distance, she cannot distinguish much else.

Her legs slow to a stop and she makes a short half circle to face the stranger. She does not close the distance and instead watches, waiting to see if he will continue on or make contact.

Wardruna watches with a keenly observant jack-o-lantern eye: the left eye, the pupil of the iris pooled with blood at the bottom stares ahead unseeing and devoid of the narrowing and widening of the right pupil that studies her as she slowly turns to face him. She would be pretty, the northerner thinks, if her cheeks were not sunken, her face near skeletal. No, he thinks, she still strikes him as pretty despite that. Just dull and devoid of that fire of life. Idly, Wardruna wonders how close to death she is. There is an inquisitive movement of his head noting that she does not draw nearer but does not take to flight. How does such a lovely creature get so broken? Wardruna does not speak. He moves nearer to her: unsure if he intends to play predator or savior or some cross between. He cannot know yet. He draws as near as she will allow, seeking to push his black, leathery nose to the fur of her neck if she allows it with intent to drink in her scent to determine if it is illness that grips her or something else altogether. While Wardruna smells nothing from afar ( and his keen nose has sharpened in the absence of half of his sight ) he does not trust that alone.

The brute does not linger in the distance long, taking long strides to close the distance. His steps are calculated and slow and she feels his scrutinizing eyes the closer he gets. She notes that one eye is not right and her gaze holds it for a moment, but she slowly blinks and looks away, searching the rest of his form. He doesn’t reveal any true intentions but he continues to get closer without stopping, daring to reach in her direction when close enough. She flinches when he angles his nose toward her neck but she lean back without moving her feet away. Unable to get far enough away, she feels his leather nose touch against her fur and skin and she freezes in place.

Without any fight left in her, she knows she won’t get away should he decide to harm her and the idea of fleeing is long gone. Most of her days are spent waiting to see if it is the day that she’ll finally extinguish. He will be doing a favor should he decide to, but she does not offer any reaction to his touch aside from her now statuesque form and closed eyes, letting her garner whatever it is he wants.

Wardruna is not sure if she necessarily allows the touch of his nose to her flesh for she flinches away as he draws nearer. He hesitates only for a moment, weary of a flash of teeth or any sort of retaliation. It does not come and he follows through with his intended action. He inhales deeply, noting that her flesh is not as warm as he thought it should be. Beneath the simple touch she has gone frigid, utterly still. It’s almost too easy. He recoils his head after deducing that he scents no illness but circles around her slowly to get a better assessment of her. He wonders what kind of fire she once harbored, what fire she had the potential to harbor. It would be a waste to let her potential slip, he thinks. Would her fire be fierce: like a supernova, that which would burn him should he get too close? Or would it be gentler? Warmth, like the fire of a comforting hearth? He slides along her opposite side. “þér líður kalt,” Wardruna speaks to her in northener first and then offers the common translation as best he can: “You feel cold.” Wardruna observes simply. Would he have been anything other than he was he would have felt guilt at taking advantage of her state. He feels no guilt, for it is the very nature of the beast. Only the loveliest were taken as thralls in Jötunn Spine and her beauty, as hollow as it currently is, is a curse, calling to the northern beast in Wardruna. She would make a fine validation that he is northern despite his exile, despite his failure to win and failure to die, despite his partial blindness. Yet, he does not think the wolves of Easthollow will take kindly to him claiming her as his thrall and he frowns slightly in thought as he thinks about how to best proceed because he wants her and that is all the reason he needs. “There is a pack not far from here I recently joined. They may have space for you.” He suggests in his soft, lilted accent, taking a step away from her to see if she would remain the statue she's become.

A few seconds pass and he pulls away and when he becomes visible again, she watches as he moves around her. She stands still, like a bird with a broken wing, and when she can’t turn her head around any further, she snaps back ‘round to the other side to watch him. His eyes easily look her over as a predator might and she simply follows his gaze to try and figure out what his motive is. She licks her lips while anxiety stirs in the depth of her chest and she straightens herself back out, remaining stiff even as he saddles up beside her.

His words, at first, mean nothing. She does not react like she knows them, nor like he’s speaking gibberish. Her mind isn’t capable of interpreting it so she remains silent until he clarifies, then goes on to talk about a place he’s made his home. In a way, he offers her a place, but the gesture doesn’t have much back. One look at her and one can deduce how useless and pathetic she is. There isn’t anything impressive about her that will be of use.

Instead of responding, she turns her head back the way she’d been walking and slowly begins to move away.

She looks away, back to the way she’d been originally heading and evidently unthaws. She starts to walk away from him. Though Wardruna is unsure if he’s gotten a rouse from her, a spark of what she appears to be rather devoid of, she certainly manages to get a rouse from him. He is stalled for only a moment before he recovers and follows after her with swift purpose. She cannot just… walk away from him! He’s chosen her! He lets out a low snort of displeasure wondering how pathetic he must look chasing after her like some puppy. Yet wishes to tread carefully, not wanting to upset the debt he owes to Valette and her Easthollow. Wardruna does not want to upset the foundations he’s begun to lay there: the sanctuary they promised him. He needs them….much more than they need him. He is not ignorant: he knows this. Accepts it even. But he wants her: this hollowed out, lithesome creature that has intrigued him. “Come with me,” The northerner implores, treading with clever care around the demand he desires to make. “You do not smell of pack. The Alpha, my Alpha, she is kind. She accepted me. She will accept you.” It’s not exactly a promise he had any room to make, and he doubts in honesty his word as such a new member will be of any worth to Valette. Still, Wardruna tries. His objective has shifted from it’s original purpose and he intends to pursue this. The food can wait.

She hears the footsteps behind her after she’s taken several steps and she slowly turns her head to look at him without stopping. She licks her lips as he beckons her to come with him when it is made evident that she does not want to. When he brings up the pack again, she wonders whom he’s talking about and where they reside. His scent is filled out to her weakened nose but she does not seem to care enough to try.

When she parts her jaws, it’s obvious how dry her mouth is and dehydrated she is overall, but she clears her throat anyway. ”Why?” she asks hoarsely, turning a little to face him. Perhaps it is a bleeding heart that keeps him in pursuit, some need to prove himself.

She looks at him as he catches up to her but she does not stop walking. Wardruna keeps pace with her, determined that if he cannot become a road-block that he will at least weight her down. She would not lose him that easily. It’s not in his nature to give up ( nor evidently to respect her wishes ). He understands only his own culture, how it works, how things should be according to the northerners he hails from. Wardruna’s ears cup towards her as she asks him why, breaking her previously held silence. Finally! It is something and there is a small sweet of victory in the northerner’s chest though he is quick to extinguish it before it dares to become anything more prideful. There is truly no way of putting it to her in any delicate manner, Wardruna decides. Wardruna had been denied the rite of passage of having his own thrall due to his foolish challenge and resulting exile and he intends not to let her slip away. Surely, though, she will not willingly subjugate herself to that. Still, he has tried the most gentle way he knows how to convince her to go with him; it is no longer time for that. So, he will be honest. “Do you know what a þræll is? Well, I have chosen you to be mine.”

He speaks a word she does not understand and without explaining, announced that he has decided she is one. She narrows her green eyes to try and see what he really means but there’s no context to what he wants. He hasn’t answered why he wants to bring her back or make her his… whatever he said. She licks her lips but it is rough and slow and she has to cough, a rattle in her chest she doesn’t remember. A tremble takes over her form suddenly for having been out in the open for so long with little coverage. Still, she does not trust this one and she does not give in to whatever he wants even if she knows she doesn’t stand a chance against him. Perhaps, if given enough time, he’ll get bored of this game and she can go on living out the rest of her days.

“I don’t think that’s how that works,” she deems, looking away from him, though she does not make a move to step away again.

He watches with his functioning eye as her own green eyes narrow at him and he thinks with a giddy sense like a panther cornering a fawn intent on playing with his food that he has sparked something within her. Suspicion. Fear. Anger. Defiance. She feels something in that moment, Wardruna believes. He watches as she licks her lips again and then lets out a rattling cough that causes his lips to twitch. She is unwell. He does not fail to detect the shiver that ripples down her spine. Wardruna lets out a low huff as she looks away from him and deems that him choosing her is not how it works. “That is exactly how it works.” He counters sharply, harsher than he means to speak. Though Wardruna does not need it to be consensual, for a moment her rejection brings to the surface the anger and bitterness that he tries to bury. Burying it, however, is not a permanent solution to getting rid of it. His gods had not ordained this meeting for her to simply walk away; and to do what? To wither and die? He could drag her to Easthollow, certainty; but he knows. He knows that all it would take would be for the wrong word …or the right word in her case and everything he is trying to build for himself will come crumbling down to ash at his paws. “I need you.” The translation does not sound quite what he'd been hoping for but he is in no mood to try to piece together something more correct. It will suffice. Wardruna hasn’t quite figured out what use he has for her specifically yet. Perhaps, at the current moment in time he gravitates to her like a burning star pulled into a dying planet’s orbit because he is lonely and in some respect he hopes that she is like him. Perhaps Wardruna thinks that seeing her back to health would give him something else to focus upon other than his disability and all that he has lost for it. It is utter selfishness attempting to masquerading as selflessness.

He disagrees with her observation. He knows more about whatever he’s talking about than she does. It doesn’t make sense to her but his resolve is laughable. There is nothing in her to need and not a worthy pack leader would take her in. She’ll drag them all down as winter comes. They won’t want to put in the effort to pull her from the brink of death and she’s long since accepted it. The past is nothing more than a haze, something she’s locked away for thinking about it only makes her days worse. Interacting with another tugs at those from hiding and little cues reveal more than she wants.

“You will see,” she tells him, rolling her eyes. She may have lost the flame but the spark stays in the back. She’ll prove it to him. “They will not take a lost cause,” she adds, “I will prove it, then you will leave me be.” The woman jerks her nose for him to retreat and lead her to his destination.

Wardruna’s lips curl into a smirk as she counters him with a ‘we will see’ and an accompanying roll of her eyes at him. Proof that there is some fragment of something that still lives within her: that defiance seeps from some spark still burning within her, no matter how tiny. If her ghost of defiance is anything to him: she will be magnificent when she reanimates, when she is healthy and her fur and eyes shine once more. No doubt, Wardruna’s idea of a perfect thrall would be meek and utterly complacent but in truth that’s not what he sought, not truly. He wanted defiance, he wanted opinion, he wanted fire. He wanted companionship and in his mind all the ideal thrall is good for is physical companionship and that’s not what Wardruna wants.

“We will see.” He agrees succinctly, wondering whom will prove right in the end as the both of them seem confident that they are right. She sets her own conditions and he bares his teeth, a low hiss escaping his clenched jaw. That’s ok, he tells himself, but he will win this bet and he has how own conditions. “And if I am right you will be my þræll and let me nurse you to health.” He tells her, the fur at the nape of his neck ruffling with unease as he glimpses over his left shoulder to peer back at her, forgetting for a moment that his vision is gone in that eye. Adrenaline spikes his blood and his heart sprints in his chest for a second before he moves to the left so that when he glimpses over his right shoulder he can see her. Of course he can hear her footfalls but slows so that he matches her pace and then slows a little more so that she takes the lead. “I will guide you. Keep heading straight.” He informs, thinking that it is better this way so that he can keep his eye upon her for he is not so unsure that she would not attempt to slip away and his impaired vision and lack of coordination because of it would give her an advantage over him.

“What is your name?” He asks her then, ears alert atop his skull for both the sound of her voice or anything that he would assess as trouble.

She does not like the way his lips curl up, flashing off his teeth. A shiver runs up her spine but it is masked by the trembling she can’t control. The wind whips through one good time and she reacts by spreading her front legs for balance. All at once, she regrets engaging and even agreeing to go back to his pack. He’s already conned her into going and her mind kicks into gear. What are the odds an alpha will believe him and let them take her in? She is kind, she thinks, remembering what he said earlier, but a few solid breaths and she’s certain she’ll be turned away. Even the wind is a threat to keep her upright.

When he offers his own condition, he speaks the word again, and she considers asking what it is but her tongue remains weighted down. Even if the alpha is convinced she can return to health, it doesn’t mean she will or that she has to, so she ignore the statement on what he chooses to do. She’s closer to death than any really resemblance of life that she only feels the need to humor him to prove him wrong.

He puts them into gear and for a few steps, he is beside her, but he decides to guide her from an angle behind that confuses her. Her brows knit together and she struggles to make any speed and real progress. Her movements are slow and jagged and he’s wasted so much energy in her already (not that she had much) and her own desires would lead her back to the den she’d taken refuge in. He speaks up a bit later for her name and she opens her mouth, Adeline on the tip of her tongue while Cascada is long forgotten. She sighs and glances back at him for a brief second but she returns her gaze forward.

”I don’t have one,” she settles after a long pause and then releases a shaky breath.

Wardruna offers no explanation for his decision to guide her to Easthollow’s borders from the rear where he can keep her in view. Perhaps a medic might be able to look at the blood pooled in the irises of his left eye and deduce that he no longer has vision in it upon glimpse alone but he runs off the consideration that she does not know that and works to keep it close to his chest. As far as he’s concerned: it’s not something she needs to know. Not now. Perhaps not ever. Telling her would imply that he trusts her and Wardruna doesn’t. His blindness in his left eye is his Achilles heel and he knows better than to broadcast such a weakness to the world. He only told Valette because it had been necessary at the time and it was likely she would find out, if not suspect regardless. As they go along, Wardruna almost doesn’t expect her to answer his question and when she does his ears cup forth atop his skull as he processes what she tells him. She doesn’t have a name, she says. She is no one; that will not do. His salmon pink tongue draws across his jowls as he watches her stabilize herself against the wind and he moves forward, quickening his pace to slide his blindside against her to keep her steady with a low scoff under his breath, suddenly wondering if it’s possible for her to just …blow away. “I will call you Noma.” He informs her simply and though she did not ask he offers in return, “I am Wardruna.” In a softened rumble.

He gives her a name. Noma. Perhaps in a different time she would find it pretty. Noma. It rings in her mind over and over while everything else swirls around in a confused mess. He’d been her first contact in days and she simply sways to his decision, if only because she doesn’t have the effort to fight it and even if she did, he can easily choose to end her. It is what she prefers perhaps, but something keeps her going. Something keeps her life from ending one way or the other and she just rolls with the punches. She doesn’t acknowledge the name, or his introduction, as she moves forward with the occasional guidance by Wardruna.