Wapun Meadow cast by their grave-beseeming ornaments

Sif stared indolently up at the sky, her dark face completely free of expression. Snow was something she remembered well from her frightening youth along the shore - mostly, she remembered the way her Auntie had shivered above her cousins, eyes shut tight against the gales that blew past them. But snow - she remembered that, too. It had not been pleasant in her childhood, and it was only slightly more tolerable as an almost-adult, her furs now thick enough to protect her from the worst of it.

Her paws were still icy cold, of course, and her nose. Even her thickly-furred ears were exposed to the elements.

Sniffling indignantly, the young shewolf carried on, trotting through the white meadow on long, sprightly legs. She needed to get out of the weather before she caught a chill, and those trees in the distance looked like as good a place as any to hole up for a few days or a few hours.

It is always when he sets out of Easthollow’s territory to track a herd or to hunt when he comes across them: the lone, the captivating. It’s never his intention — this particularly cold and bleak day he seeks the pronghorns that he knows haunt the territory, itching to slip out of Easthollow’s suddenly too watchful eye. He has no doubt that Mur had spoken to Valette — a suspicion born merely because he strikes Wardruna as the type. The type to stick his nose in the face of a king cobra because he thinks it’s his business to meddle. This king cobra would have no qualms about striking him if he got too close. Noma’s strength is returning and slowly Wardruna’s hunting abilities are improving. He will never been one hundred percent but he strives to be as close as he can: to put his faith in the gods that though his world has cast him out as an exile, as a disgrace to their culture that they still had faith in him as he did them. Perhaps he would take his woman ( women? ) and depart Easthollow soon. He’s not sure if @Noma has joined him or not — he gives her the choice with no obligation either way before he sets out.

His hunt for the pronghorn he’d been following is momentarily abandoned, as his right eye takes in the female’s form. She is dark brown with light brown markings and eyes that appear to be red to him. Not red like the blood that pools in his left iris from his permanent hyphema but of a similar color. The snow does little to mask his approach: he cannot help the soft crunch of it under his paws and as to not startle her off — because truly that would be a shame — Wardruna lets out a low, soft chuff to announce his presence to her.

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At least, they looked pleasant until someone else appeared, and then Sif was glad that she'd not yet reached the woods. The other wolf was larger than her - and, although it gave him the advantage in a fight, she was sure she'd be able to escape him easily enough by bounding through the snow. Bigger wolves were rarely as fast as her - not even Fen could have caught her, if she hadn't wanted to be caught.

But there was no reason to run just yet. Sif glanced around, body language broadcasting uncertainty without her permission and relaxing only marginally when she saw that they were completely alone. She padded a few steps closer to him, ears swivelling dubiously in a who, me? type motion. He'd been hailing someone, and she was the only one around...

Her fur bristled while her body compacted; submission and warning, always. I am harmless if you are harmless, she wanted to say, but other wolves rarely got the memo.

"Farlig?" she called, her voice wavering. "Hætta?" a pause. "Dangerous? Du hurt eg?"

She tried all the languages she was familiar with, mixing them without really realizing it. Communication was so complicated; Sif's tongue was clumsy in all dialects.

The girl lowers herself into submission despite the bristle of her fur and Wardruna studies her with hunger in his functioning eye: drinking in the submission and letting it fuel and empower him. She speaks to him, at first, in a tongue that is similar to his own native language — perhaps of a different region of the north — but then she speaks in northerner and his entire mood and body shifts. Surprise takes him in full force and his ears perk with great interest atop his skull, tail brushing against his hocks in intrigue and invitation. She is like him, he believes. This one is special, he thinks. “Nei, ég mun ekki meiða þig.” Wardruna tells her softly: as if she were a frightened animal he anticipates to take flight. In a way, he does anticipate that. He does not wish it to be so but he is prepared for it nevertheless. “ég er Wardruna. Hvað heitir þú?” He inquires with a curious tilt of his head and a ghost of a step closer though he is still sure there is more than ample distance between them. He will not be able to catch her if she runs: his contorted depth perception makes sure of that and one more he's left with a burning hatred for the damage done to his eye but is quick to tuck it away in the wake of the lovely and familiar — in a way that meeting another of one's people is familiar — woman's presence.

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The way the male spoke was probably quite typical of others who knew his laguage. Perhaps he'd even slowed his words quite a bit for her. It was still too fast for her to keep up, and certain words sounded not-quite-right to her untrained ears. She missed the way that Fen would speak to her, giving her time to mouth each word to herself before stringing them together into something normal wolves could understand. Even now, she closed her eyes and whispered to herself, trying to gather her thoughts and piece together his.

Her tail gave a tiny, fragile wag as she realized what he was saying. He wouldn't hurt her, and his name was Wardruna, and he wanted to know her name. She could do this.

"Sif," she replied, padding a few steps nearer to the male. They were still far enough that, if he lunged, he'd not even come close to reaching her. But Sif stretched her neck as if they stood side-by-side, nostrils flaring as she took in what she could of his scent. Others, said her nose. But that was all she could discern from this distance.

Sif. Wife. More specifically, Wardruna corrects himself mentally, the second wife of the God of thunder. She moves closer and the northerner’s heart beat increases slightly in excitement, he realizes. Because she is lovely, because she is like him. It doesn’t matter if she is northern or not: she knows the tongue and he thinks that to call her thrall would be a disservice to her. If only he had that revelation with the others. Wardruna does not realize that he speaks too fast for her, though he has an inkling that she’s not all together as fluent at Northerner than he is ( the time it took her to answer his question hints at such ) — but that’s ok! The important thing is she knows the language and presently it’s all he needs. “Sif,” He repeats upon his softened, accented tone. She has closed some of the distance upon her own but space still lingers between them. He assumes she takes in his scent and he, with a flare of black, leathery nostrils, does the same. Lone. Healthy enough. She appears to look strong but she is still too far away for him to do a proper assessment. “hvað er sagan þín?” Wardruna inquires, speaking this question slower, reminding himself of his previous epiphany regarding her fluency earlier. He could be wrong but he could be right; in truth all that mattered was that they were of the same people ( or rather he assumes this to be the case ) and that he wanted her. As a thrall …as a wife? Specifications hardly mattered at the moment. He only knows that if this goes well that he cannot and will not take her to Easthollow. His time there, he knows, is coming to a close. Their meddling and intervention with Noma aggravates him to the point of snapping — and he knows it’s only a matter of time before that happens.

For now, Wardruna tucks such contemplations and thoughts aside as he focuses on Sif once more, eager to hear what she is willing to share with him.

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The other seems content to allow distance to remain between them - something that goes a long way toward endearing himself toward the banded girl. Willing contact with the girl was not something that was easily earned.

"Sagan," Sif repeats, her tongue clumsy and hesitant around the unfamiliar word. Eventually, she shook her head, ears flipping back in embarassment. "Vet ikke. Har ingenting. Alone."

She did her best to answer what she understood of his query - she was asking her for something, she thought - but even this was a bit beyond her. She could not say it eloquently, at least, and so, she kept her own questions caged in her breast, feeling oddly bashful around the strange male. He was the first wolf to seem truly interested in speaking to her, even after hearing her stunted vocabulary. She wondered how he'd come to speak Fen's words. He was also the first wolf she'd met aside from the pack beside Fen's land that spoke the northern tongue that she had just begun to learn when her carer had passed away. It was a harsh land she'd left behind, but there was still comfort in the familiarity of his voice, the sharp and rollicking sounds of words she didn't even know, but recognized as being part of a beloved language.

"Hallo," she said with a tentative wag of her tail, for lack of anything constructive to add to the conversation.

As she repeats the word for ‘the story’ back to him Wardruna gives a soft nod of encouragement though he hesitates a few seconds afterwords, wondering if she understands but nevertheless accepts the answer she provides him with as story enough. Ultimately, it tells him what he desires to know above all: that she has nothing, that she is alone. “þú þarft ekki að vera einn,” He assures her in northerner and then because he suspects that she struggles with it a way similar to how he struggles with the common tongue translates it for her. “You do have to be alone.” To him, the common tongue is inelegant and it’s sounds are not match for the attractive sounds of his native tongue. They threaten to trip off his tongue which feels heavy from using them but he feels a common translation is needed: so she understands what he is offering her. He is not sure what path yet he will take if she accepts aside from the one that he has already chosen. Not Easthollow. It is a fool’s errand to depart the pack with winter having begun but he will figure it out.

Wardruna smiles and lets out a soft laugh ( not the laugh of making fun but a genuine thing ) when she says greets him. “Halló.” He parrots back to her in northerner. For an unknown reason he finds that moment oddly endearing. He would offer to hunt something for her but his moods revolving around his ability to execute a hunt vary from hour to hour and if he is surly about it then his chances of actually catching something are slim to none. Wardruna’s not sure why but he doesn’t have the urge to coerce Sif into anything: perhaps he’s learned his lesson from Noma. Or perhaps his thrall simply wants to die and he’s forcing her to live against her will and that is why she’s still so distant. Admittedly, that situation has not gone how he’d meant it to. He can only fight a brick wall for so long until he must yield: the skin of his knuckles is split and bleeding and his bones ache. Despite the insult and dread at the thought of freeing Noma Wardruna realizes that he has unwittingly been beaten. She will be free of him, can be free of life if that is what she truly wishes for.

For now, Wardruna turns those thoughts away in favor of focusing upon the woman before him.

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Sif's ears pressed forward and then swivelled back, switching between the two for a moment before settling into an anxious slump. She almost didn't notice his quick change in languages, but when she found the words easier to understand, she realized what had happened. The common tongue was easiest for her to understand - she'd grown up around those that spoke it - but she could more easily pronounce the words that Fen had taught her. They were the first words she'd been taught to speak, and the most recent as well.

"You... selskap?" Sif asked tentatively, unable to remember the other word for company - the one that the other northern wolves had used. Their dialect - though similiar to Fen's - had been the source of much confusion for the girl. "Með mér?"

If she could blush, she would have blushed then. She wasn't sure what the man was suggesting, and she felt awkward trying to guess at it - especially when he spoke all these languages so well, while she could only pick and choose at certain words and pray that she'd remembered their meaning correctly.

Wardruna’s dark umbra ears cup forth atop his skull as he watches her with a …giddy eagerness bubbling in the cavity of his chest as she inquires over what he means with a tentativeness. Her tentativeness does not necessarily come as a surprise to him — it’s not as if he’s entirely sure what he means either. Wardruna only knows that the new path that has revealed itself to him: the path whose precipice that he stands upon feels right. It is dark and what it holds for him is unknown — it’s not without risk ( he is reminded that nothing in life worth having is not without it’s risks ) but he is not afraid. “fyrirtæki. yes.” Well, it was more than company he was offering he supposed. He had no plan, not really. Nothing beyond leaving Easthollow and freeing Noma from her title as thrall and giving her the choice: join him or stay with Easthollow. There were no potential territories in his mind, and certainly no guarantee that they’d be able to build a pack. He supposes if they don’t they will simply have to go elsewhere: find another pack and try again when the winter snows melt and spring blooms to life.

Patience is a slowly learned but necessary evil for the northerner. It’s yielded results are slow but sometimes, he’s discovering, worth the wait. “You could travel with me.” Wardruna; but as a companion he thinks, not as a thrall. Thus far taking women as his thralls against their wills has only yielded him unsatisfactory results. He is not overly sure anyone would choose to be a thrall and perhaps with time his tune towards taking instead of asking will change. His temperament varies: like the winters of the land that bore him. Some days were mild, tolerable and others were utterly harsh and unforgiving; and his culture? It was designed to weed out the weak. It is in his nature to be “cruel” though he will never see it as such because to him it is not cruel: it is simply how life is.

You could be my woman. Wardruna does not give voice to this desire. It is unorthodox to want to claim her for himself even though he knows nothing of her but he is not bothered by such things. There is plenty of time for the ‘getting to know’ part, he thinks. Still, he doesn’t want to scare her off. For now, he will settle for companion if she is inclined to accept a stranger’s offer.

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The man's offer easily ensnared the dark girl. She fell silent, eyes dropping to the ground between them as she contemplated her options. Winter was approaching once more, and although she knew her own mettle and trusted that she could battle through it on her own, that road was certainly daunting. But she didn't know this man, and she worried that he'd turn against her in time, or that his interest would wane as he came to know her.

Coming to a decision, the young woman refocused on Wardruna and fixed him with a stern squint. "Nice to me?" she prompted, wanting to extract some promise of intent from the man before she agreed to anything else.

Nice to me? Her questions breeches the previously settled silence while his suggestion had hung in the balance between them. It is a fair enough question — a answer that she had a right to. Would he be nice to her? He had no reason not to be. They shared a tongue …even if her words were picked and chosen but he could teach her. She was a northerner like him ( as far as Wardruna cares to see it ) and he realizes abruptly how starved for that he is. Oh, he could be hideously cruel when he wanted to be …but he could be good to her. He would be good to her. “Yes,” The sound rasps from his throat and he gives it a soft clear and a sheepish grin that tugs ever so slightly at his lips. “Yes.” He reiterates. “I will be nice to you. I will take care of you.” Wardruna promises, though admittedly as far as he can see she does not appear like she needs care like Noma does. Sif appears healthy enough; and furthermore appears to be willing enough — if not, understandably, hesitant. Wardruna is patient, hopeful that she will agree to travel with him.

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Sif continued to observe the male with pointed suspicion for a few long moments. She took note of his grin and wagging tail, and eventually decided that she would trust his words and friendly body language. Her deep brown furs - which had puffed out without her permission - gradually began to deflate, and her expression defaulted to guileless curiosity.

"Okay," she said with a dip of her head. They were friends, then. She gave a little wag of her tail, not quite sure what one did once they successfully achieved friendship with another wolf. Assuming Wardruna had done this before, the girl simply stood there, polite confusion clear in her pretty features.

There was a stretch of long moments between them presumably as Sif decided whether she wished to put that faith in him or not. Understandably, it was a lot of faith to put on a stranger whom could only give her his word at the moment. A stranger who could not even take her to the pack he temporarily calls his home. It was a shame, he thinks, because he would have stayed in Easthollow: he would have aided in bolstering their numbers if they could have just kept their noses to themselves and not poked and prodded them all in his business. Wardruna watches with his functioning eye as her fur begins to gradually deflate and she lets out a simple ‘okay’ accompanied by a dip of her head. “Okay.” Wardruna parrots the word back to her with a grin: a strange mixture of what he assumes is happiness and relief washes over him. For a small moment Wardruna isn’t sure what to do either but he wills his long legs to move, to take him closer to her. His steps are slow and cautious. He is ready to stop at the first sign of her discomfort. Wardruna intends to close the distance between them: to touch his nose to her muzzle, to her withers and to snake his body along the length of hers to mix their scents — but whether he goes through with the action or not depends solely upon if Sif allows it.

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Wardruna responded in kind, and Sif - feeling quite pleased by this interaction - attempted to display all the happy-wolf actions she could remember, and probably ended up looking like she was having some kind of fit. Then she realized he was coming toward her, and the girl froze, pointed ears cupped forward in nervous interest.

Her fur bristled once more, but her tail gave a frantic wave against her hocks, assuring him that she was still as harmless as he was. And then he was touching her; Sif's head jerked back in surprise at his first touch, but she didn't recoil after that. Her tail twitched, and then she turned her head to press her nose into his shoulder.

He smelled nice. Sif endured the rest of his investigation feeling much more relaxed.

feel free to either archive as is or reply once more! :-)

A soft chuckle escaped the confines of the northerner’s muzzle as Sif physically showed her happiness. For some reason — though he does not see her as a pup — that is what he is reminded of: an over-eager pup. Wardruna pauses, recoiling his head back slowly, gauging her reaction slowly as she recoils back. He reads her body language with his good eye: not willing to keep pressing if she begins to show signs of discomfort of fear of his ministrations. He is harmless: merely seeking to investigate, to mark her as his with his scent. Wardruna doesn’t anticipate being so territorial but he wants any males to know that their interest is not welcome: at least until he has the capabilities and the presence to protect her ( and essentially the others ) properly. For now, he must mark them with his scent and bid them to stay close but not too close to Easthollow’s borders. Soon, he would leave. Very soon at that, but first he has a few pieces of business left to sort out. Wardruna spends a bit more time in Sif’s presence before he parts from her, heading back towards Easthollow.

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