Lost Creek Hollow and drew warmth of blood from bone

@Wardruna

 She lingers by the creek, letting the water just barely lap at her toes. It is cold here, ice threatening to overcome the dulled edge where dirt means freezing water. To the poet we delivered lacquered bone and gilded laurels contemplates briefly throwing herself through that sharpened layer, letting the cold consume her flesh for good. 

Has she truly fallen so far?

The priestess no. Poet now. Just Poet; she makes a noise of scorn at herself. It is not her time to die. She has not earned the right, and she mocks her own weak musings. But she does not turn from the creek, instead placing paw against the flimsy shelf of ice and watching it give way under her weight, watching her feet submerge into the chilled depths. It is a shallow band of water and not enough to drown her, but the ache of cold in her leg is a just enough punishment, she decides, and lowers herself artfully into the water until she is near submerged.

Wardruna slips from Easthollow’s borders again, for the sake of disappearing beneath their ever vigilant eye. The hovering grates at every and all of his nerves and he feels like it was grown gradually worse. It will matter little soon, he thinks. He will free Noma and leave Easthollow — and she will have to chose: follow him of her own free will or remain behind in the hovering of the Easthollow wolves. He tells her not to follow him today: he wants to be alone and he suspects that she wants that too. Wardruna doesn’t know for sure, of course, and he doesn’t ask her. It is a subtle preparation for what he thinks will come: for he is not so sure that when he frees her that his thrall will not wander off the die somewhere. It causes sorrow to flutter about in his chest but it is her choice, it is her life. For the moment, Wardruna turns thoughts away from his thrall.

A choice made just in time to see a woman lowering herself in the ( no doubt ) icy cold waters of the Creek. Wardruna observes at first, mostly curious, wondering if it is some sort of ritual or if she looks to soothe an aching pain, perhaps and then wonder becomes perplexity as she all but submerges herself. He has not made to quiet his heavy footfalls upon the hardened earth but he lets out a chuff to announce his presence to her nevertheless — in case his steps fell upon distracted ears.

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Her skin prickles, pulls tight against the chill that settles in her bones. Repent, repent, the shivers of her flesh whisper. But there is no more need for repentance. Poet is far from the world of Beneath-Night's Breath, far away from any whom would witness her own deliverance. Perhaps she could cut her tongue from her mouth and live the rest of her life in bleak muteness.

But she does not linger on the thought, pulled from her trance to the sound of heavy foot-fall. Blankly she looks upon him, no interest flickering behind kohl-lined yellow eyes. Without moving, the priestess turns her head, giving the creature a passive once over. He is large, a being of beauty, an agent sent, perhaps, to read her for her sins. "Well," she murmurs, voice rough, unsteady. "Have you been sent for me?" Of course, she could be wrong, for wolf-smell clouds these lands. But it hard not to assign the man some meaning, as if her blasphemous heart has summoned him for Breath's will to be done.

Wardruna cannot see her well — because yes she is mostly submerged in water — but even so all that truly stands out to him are golden eyes. His struggle of still adjusting depth perception and distance with the permanent damage the hyphema in his left eye is a slow progression and things he would have keenly spotted before blur together with notable distance. It is getting better but Wardruna knows he still has a long way to go yet. He relies more heavily on his other senses these days: sound, smell, taste, feel. She hears his chuff, at the very least, and as she stare lingers upon him she speaks, her voice a rough and unsteady murmur against the soft babble of the waters. He translates her question in his head and inspects it carefully with contemplative evident in the twitching of his ears yet it’s end result is the same: it makes little sense to him. Sent for her? More importantly, he ponders what it is he is meant to answer. Yes? Or no? Which was honest? The truth was that this meeting was just happenstance …or was it? He is a firm believer in the Gods and he is an equally as firm believer that everything is by their design. “I do not know.” The northerner eventually answers honestly with a terse tug of his lips and a small roll of his broad shoulders. He is no Seer and to pretend that he has intimate knowledge with the design of the Gods is akin to sacrilege. Thus, Wardruna plays it safe. He does not particularly want to feel the agony that the wrath of his Gods will no doubt cause.

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For a moment she wonders if he will simply dissipate into the mist. Instead she finds herself watching the faint twitch of his mighty ears, feeling some rotten mirth bubble up inside her. I do not know. So be it. Poet lifts herself from the water, wearing the weight of her soaking wet fur as a chain, and takes a precise step back onto the earth. 

It is not quite a baptism, but she supposes it will have to do for now. "Nor I," the blasphemer tells him. Drip, drip, her sides say. "And yet we are here." She is not relaxed in posture, nor guarded. Her expression remains empty, though a flicker of something, intrigue, lingers under her apathetic gaze. There is meaning to meetings, import to moments like this, but it is too early for her to divine how. And perhaps she has lost that right. 

"Do you know of atonement?" She asks at length, the edge of her mouth lifting up into a smirk. Is it a challenge or a gentle curiosity? She does not know herself what she seeks from this man, and yet.

Sif was up to her usual game of skulking in bushes and chewing on any branches that brushed her face. It was not the most entertaining passtime, but it came pretty close. But the bush she'd chosen a few hours earlier was running out of branches to chew, and she was now fairly certain it was growing right on top of an ant hill - not pleasant.

The only thing to do was vacate her haunt and seek out a new one - and this one just happened to have a nice view of her new friend and bathing wolf. Weird! thought Sif, delighted by her find. She settled in to listen to their conversation, though whether she'd be able to understand it was anyone's guess.

She's pretty well hidden, and not too close to the pair. Feel free to notice her anyway, but if they don't, she'll pop out of the bushes in a little bit.

Wardruna watches as she rises from the water, her movements the epitome of elegance: as if she was a mythical being that has chosen to reveal herself to him as the water runs freely from her pelage. She is not much closer than she had been but he can deduce the dark smudges of umbra beneath each eye and his tail brushes against his smoke tipped hocks with intrigue nevertheless as his singular gaze assesses as it sweeps over her. His damaged eye stares straight ahead: the marred flesh around it a hint that it does not work as well as it should have. Anyone who looks close enough, who has medical knowledge might be able to deduce that he’s completely blind in it but he does his best to keep it as concealed as he can. It is an exposing weakness: a rather large chink in his armor after all. She responds in kind, his ears twitching and fluttering for a moment as he picks up a noise outside of their small spacial bubble. Immediately, he thinks that Noma has followed him. She has been with him the longest and for some reason or another it does not occur to him that it might be Sif, the newest addition to his …collection. Was that the right word for it? She has her freedoms to roam and though he desires her to stay close he does not give voice to it. She is not his thrall. One day, he thinks, perhaps she will be a wife …but he reminds himself that those things take time and that he should not get so ahead of himself. For now, Sif is a companion.

Wardruna does not ignore his suspicion that they are not alone but he turns his attention back to the unorthodox but nevertheless fascinating woman before him as she asks him of atonement. It takes him a moment to make the translation connection in his mind, briefly distracted by the quirk of her lips into a smirk. Atonement. Fridpæging. She is religious, he makes the next connection based on the fact that she is alone. If there is no one to seek atonement from then surely it’s the unseen. The deities that linger just out of sight but whose presence is always felt. Sometimes, Wardruna amends, they do allow themselves to be seen. “Yes. I know of atonement.” The northerner replies, salmon pink tongue drawing across his jowls. He takes a deep breath, letting it out in what was meant to be a soft exhale but ended up heavier than that. Perhaps he, himself, is atoning. For not being a proper Northerner. For not being able to die as he should have when he lost his fight to the death henceforth resulting in the scarred flesh, permanent hyphema and unrepeatable damage done to his eye that resulted in his blindness in it. Living…surviving when he was meant to die was humiliating even more so than his resulting exile. His Gods, he knows, may have made a mockery out of him but they have bigger plans for him. This knowledge Wardruna feels in his bones.

“What do you atone for?” He inquires, wondering if he is meant to ask it so brazenly. Just because he asked, he reminds himself, doesn’t mean she is in any shape or form obligated to tell him. Still, he turns inquisitive gaze to her nevertheless.

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The arrival of the second woman goes unnoticed, or at the least, unheeded, for now. Her attention is captured by the beast, tracing the scarred flesh around his damaged eye. It is hardly anything to note, and yet she is stuck on the deep red mark against his iris, a blood mark, perhaps. Poet, she is not a medic. Such things were not part of her priestly duties. But omens, signs, indicators she knows to look for. It would be better, she decides, if he were marked in both eyes rather than one. But it is something and without thinking she latches onto it. It is something.

Yes, the beast, the man, the ... portent tells  her. What kind of atonement, she thinks to ask, but holds her tongue, finally looking from his eye to cast her gaze across the creek and its accompanying foliage. What kind of atonement does she seek? A moment later, the portent echoes her thoughts, and she draws in a sharp breath, eyes briefly fluttering closed.

"Nothing," Poet finally says, feeling the word leave her breast and take with it the weight of her sin. "I've nothing left." She has thought it many times, but it is different to tell it aloud, admit it to someone, stranger or not. There is no temple to return to now. There is no wolf-queen to absolve her blasphemies. There are no gods waiting for apology with baited breath. There is only she, and this man. The hollow truth of it frightens her, a shadow passing across her eyes, and she lifts her head, her dignity wrinkled by a silent plea: there has to be more than nothing for me here.

Sif quickly realized that the conversation was beyond her command of the common tongue. They used such words - Atonement was not something the girl had heard of before. And while it seemed as though this was a meeting between strangers, Sif could not help but be curious about what was going on between her new companion and the pretty shewolf.

Popping out of the bushes, she tip-toed her way to Wardruna's side and studied the female with bright, keen eyes.

"Do you boyfriend?" she asked the other two, her head cocking to the side.

Nothing, she tells him. She has nothing left, she admits. The gods have brought her to him as they have brought him Noma, as they have brought him Sif. It would seem their design for him continues to expand in ways he does not expect; perhaps he thinks they have not forsaken him after all. He still feels their presence: in the creak of the trees, in the rumble of thunder, in the biting chill of winter, in the cry of a raven overhead. They are all around him: pushing him and guiding him to where he needs to go. The northerner ghosts a step closer: to better study her, the gears in his mind turning. He has nothing to offer her …yet. Nothing but his and the companionship of his other women and even then Wardruna isn’t sure if Noma would choose him over Easthollow in the end when he presents the choice to her, when he frees her. “You could have something,” Wardruna’s muzzle parts and the enigmatic words roll off his tongue in his soft voice, accented with the lilted accent he speaks with. His ears twitch and surprise flits across his expression for the briefest of moments as it is Sif that pops out of the bushes in the stead of Noma. Still, he is not disappointed. He’s grown rapidly attached to the northern woman and he cannot help the preening puff of his chest as she takes a place at his side.

His ears slick back to rest at half mast against his skull at her question that is presumably aimed at both him and the stranger — thus making Wardruna realize that he does not yet know her name. Wardruna fixes Sif in his good eye, having to turn his head to do so before it swings back and his gaze settles upon the woman cross from them. “hún er ekki konan mín.” The northerner speaks to Sif, inclining his muzzle towards her ear, offering the words of his native tongue slowly so she has time to take them in, to understand what he is saying to her. “This is Sif,” He introduces his woman Sif first, gesturing to her with his muzzle. “and I am Wardruna.” He offers his own name then, looking to the woman who spoke of atonement and having nothing expectantly.

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 The portent offers what she hoped he would, although the details remain murky. She does not draw back as he moves closer, observing from under wolf-wisp lashes him better. His accent she can't quite place. It is different from the language of the temple, the language she does not allow herself to speak now. 

 The priestess draws in a breath, surprised by the sudden appearance of another woman. She seems to know the portent already, Poet intuits, from the way she moves to his side with ease. The phrasing of her question momentarily stumps her, but the portent seems to understand, answering in a tongue she does not know, velvet smooth. She must have been referring, she realises, to her and the portent. Romances were strictly forbidden at the temple, which some protested but not she. When her gaze returns back to the portent's, her expression is intrigued in a different way.

Sif, he introduces, and Wardruna. Unfamiliar names to her, used to the particularities of their naming schemes. Habitually, she murmurs soft and lilting, "To the poet we delivered lacquered bone and gilded laurels," the words nearly blurred together as a prayer. And then she stops herself, shaking her head. "My apologies, no. I... Poet. You may call me Poet." It feels like stealing, to still use her shorthand, but she still needs some connection to Beneath-Night's Breath. Her true name will be forgotten, but she will carry the moniker forever. It seems a fitting absolution. 

She looks between the pair and finds herself smirking. "Wardruna," she says, testing the name on her tongue, "what something do you offer?"

Sif's ears twitch as Wardruna speaks; something about his proximity and smooth, accented voice causes her to bristle, but she can only press closer to his side, a murmur of agreement falling from her own lips. Woman, he's said, and some kind of denial, but Sif can see that the other wolf is obviously a woman - there's no telling what Wardruna had said.

The two continue to converse. Sif tries to keep up, but strange words keep tripping her up. Poet. Laquered. Guilded. Laurels. Apologies. All this is beyond the young shewolf's narrow vocabulary.

Sif looks to Wardruna, feeling secure in the knowledge that he is listening as well, and would likely know what to make of the woman's fast tongue and strange words. Still, a low whine escapes her, reminding the male to pay attention to Sif as well. She doesn't like to feel left out.

Wardruna gives visible pause as the stranger before the pair speaks what he thinks is her name in a soft murmur. Unfortunately, as it unknowingly is with his lovely companion at his side some of the woman’s strange words go over his head. He understands bits and pieces but due to his inability to mentally translate some of the words she offers he does not attempt to re-evaluate it. Instead, he has to hope she has something easier to offer the northern pair. Eventually, whether she realizes his and Sif’s individual struggles or her motive is something entirely different she offers something much simpler: Poet. Poet. Easy enough for Wardruna to remember. “Poet.” He murmurs her name, testing it out upon his tongue, teasing the syllables in his northern accent. He shifts his weight, pressing his shoulder lightly against Sif’s before he offers her a light nibble to her cheek as she lets out a whine for his attention. I have not forgotten you, he attempts to assure with the gesture.

“What I offer,” Wardruna begins as he swings his head back in Poet’s direction, fixating upon her with his good eye, haunting, jack-o-lantern gaze glinting with the greed of a magpie’s. “Is a possible home. With me and the other women.” His women. And what a melting pot he has amassed. Eventually, with time, favorites will no doubt make themselves known to him but for now he tries to keep them equal. Well, maybe not a home yet. They have no place to settle, and in fact he’s been busy trying to avoid Easthollow’s gaze glued to him as far as Noma was concerned that he hasn’t had any time to really consider much beyond the fact that he needs to leave. He cannot show up there with a bunch of stray females — and honestly he doesn’t want them sticking their noses where it didn’t belong anymore. He hadn’t necessarily set out to recruit only females but it is they that his Gods send him. Not that Wardruna has complaints because he truly doesn’t.

That would be a good task for the ones that can roam freely. He cannot venture out himself, nor can he leave Noma alone for that length of time. And if they cannot find a territory then perhaps a pack with small numbers where their integration would not be challenged.

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She observes the pair's interaction in silence, understanding, perhaps, why Sif had asked the question she did. But she does not quite know what to make of it, especially once he lays out his offer. Other women implies more beyond the clay-furred woman at his side. She could laugh at the irony, trading one group of women following a figurehead for another, in completely different contexts.

But the idea does not bother her, no. She draws her tongue against her lips, feels the ache of cold in her bone, still fresh. "What will you require of me?" The sinner asks at length, with the intonation of one asking what tomorrow's weather will be like. Her body, her mind, her loyalty; she's no soul left to give, but somehow she doubts he is looking to amass a parish. Whatever his terms, she will take them.

They continued to converse, but Sif, nestled against the thick fur of Wardruna's shoulder, was content to let their words flow by her. Already, she had determined that she would not be able to follow the conversation. Instead, she focused on the strange woman with half-lidded eyes, wondering what her parents had looked like to give her such a striking appearance. She wondered if, like her own banded ribs, her markings bore significance to her family.

"Pretty," Sif murmured to herself, her voice low and dreamy.

Sif's just hanging out XD

Wardruna does not move his head to glimpse at Sif again but knows she is there as she nestles into the fur of his shoulder. He offers a quirk of his lips at her murmur of the word ‘pretty’ and silently Wardruna agrees. Poet is pretty — but they all are. Each of them has something that captivates Wardruna, drawing him in, that sparks and maintains his interest in them. He had not came with any sort of intention of building a kvennabúr and until very recently wasn’t even sure that was what he was doing; yet each wolf the gods bring to him is a woman and thus far he is the only male — not that he views this as a bad thing. It is just how it happens, how the pieces are falling together naturally. At first, he’d only wanted a thrall to validate him, to make him feel like he was powerful because in the Spine the more thralls you had the more power in the pack you had. It was a show of dominance. They aren’t exactly thralls though, are they? And Noma …he wanted to free her from that title, perhaps to elevate her to Wife because she was the first and he cares about her, truly. Yet, he worries he’s damaged her too much that even if he did free her she would not stay. It’s not as if Wardruna would be able to blame her if she decided to leave.

Wardruna is drawn from the wander of his thoughts as Poet inquires what will be expected of her. Everything is flowing naturally but at a rapid fire pace that threatens to drown Wardruna who struggles to get a grasp and keep his head above the water. He still has to leave Easthollow and assure that they do not feel inclined to stick their nose any further in his business; he’s had some thoughts about it, about what their roles were to be. “To contribute,” Wardruna thinks that rather speaks for itself that is what any pack or group desires in it’s members: contribution to make it work like a well oiled machine. “and when the time comes, if you are able to, bear children.” He has no family name to offer children but he thinks that they, all of them, could build one together. ‘Able’ was a loose term, of course, she must also be willing and even if she is not there is not a shortage of women and it is heavily implied. There will be a choice, an option to refuse him but overall besides upping their chances of survival for the winter what else is the purpose of a ( potential ) pack if not to expand the generations?

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His considerations are what Poet expected, truly, though children gives her pause. Perhaps it is far to call her a "reformed celibate," and the thought of laying with the man does not bother her (at least in this moment when he represents a glittering gateway to a new sort of freedom). Motherhood is not something that has ever factored into her vision of herself. Some priestesses had beared children, she is sure, but it was rare and not in her original destined path. The children groomed to be priestesses had been given as offerings of a sort, raised communually. 

In a way, Wardruna's vision is a ghost of the world she's come from, a hedonistic mirror of the temple itself. She does not know if she will ever associate herself as a mother even if children are to come from her womb but she can accep the idea of communual raising, of, she supposes, sister-wives. At length she speaks: "very well." Her gaze, more alert, no longer empty, shifts between the clay-furred woman at his side and the portent himsef. "I will join your company," she says, and tentatively moves closer, reaching out to brush her nose against his chin, should he allow, a finalization of their pact.

Had Sif been paying more attention to the conversation, she might have been startled by the revelation that, one day, she might be expected to bear Wardruna's progeny. But if it surprised her at all, it would not have been an unpleasant surprise. Young wolves excited her, and the idea that she and Poet and the rest of Wardruna's companions would share in such an important and intimate task was one that Sif would have treasured like a precious gift.

But she was not paying attention, and thus, only gleaned (from actions, rather than words) that the strange woman would be their friend, now. When she moved to physically greet the northern man, Sif shied back with a wagging tail, lowering herself submissively to her belly. While the woman touched her nose yo Wardruna's chin, Sif belly-crawled between them to give both their muzzles a flurry of excited licks.

This is not a plan that Wardruna constructed himself: rather it fell together in such a natural albeit rapid-fire way that left the Northerner with the absolute belief that this was much greater than him, then his women. It was the designs of the very gods themselves, proof of their favor and continued show that they still had plans for him, that they did not disregard him as the wolves of the Spine had when he’d failed to die like he was supposed to. The gods have sunken him to the very lowest of lows and now they raise him up like a harbinger of their will, the catalyst of their greater plans. Poet accepts what he offers her and he watches her with heavy lidded eyes ( er, well one eye watches her, more like ) as she approaches him. Wardruna accepts the brush of her nose against his chin. “þá ertu velkominn hjá okkur” Wardruna breathes, his tail giving a few soft wags against his hocks. The northerner lifts his chin as Sif belly crawls between them and licks at his chin and presumably at Poet’s chin in an excited manner, accepting her enthusiasm and letting out a low rumble of approval meant for both of the women in his present company. All Wardruna can hope is that he can keep his promises to them and if they cannot get established upon their own thinks it might not be a bad idea to have a pack in mind they could migrate to. It would be a terrible pain for everyone involved but he has learned much during his exile and one of those invaluable life lessons was: always have a contingency plan.

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wrap up?

Her eyes close. She does not know the words the portent speaks but she does not need to, pressed cheek-to-cheek. This moment of shared space, of intimacy, is an oath that she does not intend to break. It remains to be seen if Wardruna will follow through but she is patient. She can wait. She shivers roughly, the chill in her legs incessant, but what is a baptism without a little bit of sacrifice?

After a moment the priestess withdraws, eyes fluttering open as she regards Sif and Wardruna again, viewing them through this new lens of solemn vow. "Where shall I wait?" She asks, for she is sharp enough to pick up the scent of others on his pelt. If he is with pack now she will linger outside of their boundaries, for she is unwilling to pledge loyalty to anyone else right now. Sif lacks the same collection of scent that the portent carries, so perhaps she will stick by her. But she will wait wherever he tells her to. She is patient.

Now that it was clear that the stranger was important to them, Sif tried to pay more attention to what was going on. Wardruna welcomed her to their order, and then the woman asked where she should await his call. Obviously, there was only one good answer.

"With me!" said Sif, looking between the two with bright, begging eyes. She had been getting lonely out there on her own, and having a new companion to pal around with her sounded like just the thing to ease that. "Please?" she asked, giving an entreating little wiggle.

conclusion post. :-)

Wardruna’s tail brushes against his hocks as the deal is sealed, watching with his functioning eye as Poet withdraws from Sif and him. The question is posed to him where she should wait for him — reminding him that he has to make his move and leave Easthollow soon; he cannot leave them waiting for him forever. Sif speaks up then, begging that he allow Poet to wait with her. Wardruna considers it for a moment but it doesn’t require very long. It’s a good idea: the two women can keep themselves company when he is absent. “Yes,” Wardruna replies. “Stay with Sif.” He draws his salmon pink tongue across his jowls. “I will slip out of Easthollow’s borders when I can.” But Wardruna harbors no desire to draw attention to what he does when he parts from their borders and he worries that his women hanging around the borders will draw unnecessary attention. “I will leave my pack soon,” because there was little sense in keeping up paper thin appearances and he’s tired of being watched and the hovering and prying. “— in the meantime try not to draw attention to yourselves by them.” Wardruna advises. It wasn’t that Sif and Poet were secrets because they weren’t but he has no intention of telling Easthollow that he’s building a kvennabúr. Wardruna doubts that would go over smoothly and he doesn’t need any further trouble with them.

The trio goes their own way then: Sif taking Poet to her haunt as Wardruna returns to Easthollow’s borders pleased by how the events of the day have unfolded.