@Ragna
The plague was gone but the scars still remained.
The woodlands, usually lush with magnificent color and beauty this time of year, were quite lacking in splendor. Copses that had recovered before summer were stripped bare in some places by those desperate to fill their stomachs before the chill consumed the wilds and blanketed it in fluffy snow. Still, the world spun; the day turned to night, and the wolves lived on.
Solveig came, as she usually did, without so much as a thought to why. It is a harsh and brutal land, but made up for it in the wealth of curiousities it held deep with the heart. She wished to unravel it; to follow a tiny thread to the larger tapestry. To observe the intricate details and feel, for once, completely free.
But it was not these things she thought of now as she wound through the twisted, damp tangle of the thicket. Her paws sought easy purchase on the muddy ground, though the constricting latticework of the vines and roots proved a far more difficult obstacle for the hulking she-wolf than she initially anticipated. She was large, far too large to squeeze through some of the tighter turns or beneath the roots. So she simply chose to climb over them.
It was on one particular bridge of vine, root, and dilaphitated logs that she stopped to ponder her surroundings with a curious flick of a soft ivory ear.
The girl's blood was on Ragna's paws, though time had worn away all physical evidence but the corpse rotting, hidden, in a field. The stain would remain, but already the guilt faded, chased away by reason and relief. The girl's packmates had come, but they had not asked after her killer, nor seemed to seek revenge. The only one now to hold her accountable was herself and, perhaps, Eshamun.
Still she wished to cleanse herself, to wash away the last of her troubles in the salt of the sea. And so she struck North, prepared to brave the slough in order to reach the ocean she had been born to. Perhaps she would find Szymon, whose company always soothed her.
Ears perked and eyes keen, Ragna delved into the slough. Small prey darted, invisible, around her. The wood was dark and damp, but she had walked its winding paths before. She kept her eyes down, watching for roots and rocks that materialized for the sole purpose of tripping an unwary wolf.
And so she came upon the woman without realizing it, rounding a twisted bend and preparing to leap over the very obstacle which the stranger sat upon. Ragna noticed her mere moments before jumping and merely stared, unsure of what to say and embarrassed by what would have been an unfortunate accident.
Despite the unhospitable damp of the woods, Solveig was not alone.
The soft squish of earth beneath paws drew the attention of the hulking she-wolf, and she slowly swung her head around to regard the stranger with a unassuming stare. If the other had meant ill, she would have acted upon her intentions by now, therefore there was little to fear. A smaller wolf; far more dimunutive than herself, but with the same compact, dense musculature that bespoke of a warrior's path. The expression she bore was uncertain, likely embarassed, but Solveig was no diviner. She could never assume.
A small smile snaked across her lips and she nodded to the younger wolf. "Heil." She offered with a sweep of her bushy tail. "Do you belong here, or passing through as I am?"
The embarrassment passed swiftly, for she saw that this woman cared little and seemed happier to find another wolf. There was no aggression nor fear, and so Ragna scrabbled up onto the log beside the woman. Closer, she could see that the woman, whose fur was flax and gold, was interspersed with white. Wow what a sentence.
The woman seemed friendly enough, and Ragna would not begrudge her a conversation. Hail,
said she, though shyly. Not of these woods, but of these lands.
She held great pride in her roots and in the land of her birth. Where are you going?
If the woman was lost, then perhaps Ragna could help. She did not ask from where the woman came; if she wanted to volunteer that information, she would.
Was the girl parrotting, or did she speak a similar tongue? The greeting took her aback, but the surprise did not morph across her face; it flashed, a tiny glimmer, in her eyes. Even if the smaller she-wolf was only repeating her response to ease the tension, it endeared her further to Solveig, who learned that she was born of these lands. She was intelligent enough to understand that it was not this spot in particular, but perhaps of the greater plains or the Teekons themselves. Regardless, it was pride that the Northern wolf could relate to.
She swept her muzzle and pointed it towards where the scent of the sea grew strong. "The sea, and whatever lies there for me." Realizing that sounded entirely too mystical, she chuckled and flashed her teeth at Ragna in a carnivorous grin. "But it is nothing to worry about now. I am Solveig, of the North. You?"
Time and travel had muddied Ragna's accent. It was not instantly recognizable as any one, but as a patchwork that represented the variety of the places she had lived. This was not true of the woman. Ragna found her accent reminiscent of the wolves of Odinn's Cove, and the part of her that loved her family and nourished her roots was jealous.
[b]I was born to the sea,[/q] she said. There bloomed a fondness, nothing permanent, but something nostalgic. She thought of Szymon and the home he and his had made in the bay. For a moment, Ragna thought of retaking the bay not through violence, but by stocking its numbers with wolves that would do right by it. Though this northwoman might not have been a viking, she seemed to be made of the same stuff Ragna was. North of here lies a bay. I was born there.
Solvieg introduced herself as such, and Ragna nodded. Well met, Solveig. I am Ragna of the Malkaria.
Though her expression had returned to relative neutraility when Ragna revealed she was, in fact, born from salt and sand, Solveig's smile grew wider until her large canines peaked beneath the dark rims of her lips. "Ragna," she tested the name on her tongue and lent the other wolf a mirthful glance, "no doubt your counsel holds great weight among the Malkaria." This comment was, of course, in reference to the meaning behind their name in the shared tongue of their fathers.
"Tell me then, what of your parents? They seem a kindred to the ones I knew far north if they gifted you with such an important name."
In some matters,
she said, a vague reference to her standing among the Malkaria. She was valued, and that was enough for her. The cultural nuances were better left unsaid.
Dead,
said she, automatic. But great in life. I was named for my father, whose name still holds great weight in some lands.
The pain of her parents' deaths no longer stung. Worse was her mother's, whom she had known and loved in life, and the uncertainty of it. Thistle Cloud was not dead, but missing, but how could she have left while her sons still remained in the wilds? Surely she was dead. Ragna would rather she was dead than to think that her mother, stalwart and kind, had grown so cold as to abandon her children.