Wolf RPG

From the Qeya River he moved south once more, backtracking. The lack of a mental map of these foreign lands brought with it a slight disorientation that Rigr was not used to. He knew that he was backtracking, at least, and deigned to avoid the Witches Marsh if he could help it. The Teekon was so vastly different from Elindgar, a different climate much more tropical than the norseman was used to. For the briefest of moments, an ache resounded in his chest as he cut through the rocky slopes between The Sunspire and Lone Star Mountain though he knew not their names. Fjöll 1 & 2 sufficed; they looked largely the same to him as he strove for the less treacherous path through and truly didn't care if the locals had given them names or not. To go around would take more time then he was willing to afford, though in truth, he had no appointments to keep. His father's faded legacy was likely nothing even recognized. How his half siblings could let it fall so willingly...it was pathetic. They were not worthy. The Norns spoke as much.

Eventually, as morning yawned into mid afternoon Rigr had descended the outcropping of rocks, his paws seeking the solid ground of a vale. A few steps were taken away from the rocky face he'd descended from before his steps ceased. Black, leathery nostrils flared and ash grey hackles bristled as the scent of wolves assaulted his nostrils. It occurred to the viking, rather suddenly, that he'd found himself trapped betwixt a rock and a hard place (literally), that he was possible trespassing. For once, it had not been intentional. He had no interest in conducting a raid (none the wiser that there was nothing for him to raid, regardless) and had only been meaning to see the otherwise of the mountain range that rose through the middle of the wilds like an earthen scar protruding heavenward. Keeping to the fringes of the Vale as much as Rigr could he pushed forward, cautious and alert but seeking to avoid the draw attention to himself by lingering for too long in one place, praying silently to Odin that it was not too late for elusive maneuvers.

Odin did not hear his prayers and if the Allfather did he chose to ignore them. A pin-prickle, the awareness of being watched began at the nape of his neck where his guard hairs bristled upon instinct. His steps ceased as the sound of uneven footfalls caused his ears to thrust forth, twitching to the sides before they slicked back to rest half mast atop his skull. Her scent soon followed, she was wounded, he could smell them on her and the unevenness of her gait, he assumed as he turned to face the one whose eyes he felt (though unknowingly the eyes of the whole rested upon him), was likely a limp. His bi-colored gaze swept over her, taking her in. Petite, creamy white with fascinating copper markings. He took in the disapproval in the set of her lips, her overall posture demanding and resolute. The strength and will she must have possessed to keep her posture, to engage him despite her condition! Rigr found it ...admirable.

The devourer's own posture lowered into submission. For what else was he to do? He was not here to aggravate her, he had no interest of raiding or starting a war. For once, he trespassed because the vale was nestled like a well protected fortress between the mountains and by the time the norseman had realized his mistake it was already too late. He could have attempted to climb back the way he came but he was loathe to backtrack, all of those hours wasted. “I mean no harm,” He broke his silence, the common tongue heavy upon his lips, accented as he spoke outside of his native tongue. Despite his words of assurance, Rigr did not expect her to take him at his word given the circumstances. He certainly would not believe such a thing told by another if he would have been in her place. Then again, if he'd be in her paws he'd have attacked by now. “I only meant to get to the other side of that fjöll ah-,” He struggled for a moment, having lost the common tongue word for mountain though he gestured to it subtly with his muzzle. “-mou ...monnin... mountin...” He grew frustrated with the word. He was out of practice and it showed. “mountain?” He settled, cursing his rusty common tongue. How was he supposed to claim Ragnar's legacy when he struggled to speak their language?

Of course that was to assume he made it out of this alive. One or two and he might stand a chance but his Berserker rage and training would only see him so far and he doubted the odds were in his favor. While he did not fear death he did value his life and it's worth. That was enough to try to appeal to this situation peacefully.

She drew nearer. His bi-colored eyes watched her closely, his ears pinning back to his skull. Showing such submission he was not used to. His name was not uttered from the lips, spilled from their tongues like poison here. His titles did not bear weight nor merit. There was an advantage to be found in it, and he played to it. His life was worth more to him than his pride. He heard her sniff at the air and the devourer sunk lower as she wordlessly commanded it. These were her lands, he knew now, and he respected power so long as it's wielder was worthy. It was rare for him to find one whom he felt the inklings of respect for but this woman ...she was worthy of his respect, he suspected. There was something within him that whispered it, that affirmed it though he could not explain why he felt that even if he had wanted to.

Rigr did not make another attempt to communicate verbally with her: he'd said all he needed to. Instead, he sunk lower, his tail curling around his hind leg, salmon pink tongue licking his jowl as his throat arched in an attempt to placate. Rigr did not fight her dominance, instead, favoring to accept it and the consequences that were to come. He could not remember the last time he'd willingly submitted to anyone and in this, while his muscles found the act foreign, there was a ...thrill to it, the Norseman found. To witness the command of power so beautifully.

His head jerked back, glimpsing at her over his shoulder as she rounded on him. This type of dominance was rare, he thought and the feel of her hooking her forepaws on his hips so she could draw herself over his rump was strange. He did not move. It habitually felt wrong to be mounted by a female even though he understood there was no sexual assertion here. Only authority. His head moved to face front, staring intently at a jutting peak in the near distance, fighting off the humiliation that rose like fire in his chest. The norseman did not appreciate the excessive display but to attack her would invoke her ire and the ire of her pack that lingered near. It would destroy all he had been trying to work for when he first realized he was trespassing. Despite his desire to snap at her, he kept his composure, played into the role of subordinate well, allowing her the display. Perhaps this was the way of packs in the Wilds, admittedly he'd have been dead or dying if he'd have trespassed in a pack like Svartalfheim. Their customs and traditions were likely very different from his own and thus Rigr was patient, observant and because he had little choice he was willingly subservient to her for he got the feeling it was what was keeping this a ...peaceful (so to speak) exchange. Mostly, Rigr was curious as to what was meant to happen after all of these displays. Was he to meet an untimely death (for he was no match for an entire pack, realistically)? Or allowed passage through?

Though she did not linger mounted for long, though he felt her weight slide off of him as she dismounted, the humiliation still seethed and writhed beneath his skin. If there was anything to be gained from it she seemed pleased at the very least, her words only confirming Rigr's assumption. Behave was a subjective word to the viking, really in terms of his behavior it ...depended. In this situation, driven by his desire to preserve his life and that bizarre aura of someone worthy of his respect: he behaved. Most of the time he would probably argue that to most wolves his behavior was ...atrocious. Barbaric. In this, he knew no different. He was a product of culture and faith, albeit the darker side of those. The devourer offered her no words, instead, his ears rising from his skull where they'd lain, attentive as they thrust forth atop his crown to show that she had his attention as she spoke to him once more.

First, she offered to escort him through her claim, until they reached a certain point and he would be on his own. Though it was originally all that he sought from her, most fascinatingly, she continued on, her second offer a sly suggestion that he could stay and socialize, adding that her pack would probably like to meet him. At first, Rigr was suspicious, unaware of the customs of these wolves. Did she truly mean socialize? Or was the offer hiding malicious intent? It struck the Northman as unlikely, if only because she could have called the wrath of her warriors down upon him. If she had wanted to attack him she'd been in the prime place to do it as he allowed her to mount him. One of her greatest opportunities to mount an attack on him had came and passed. “And what would we talk about?” He inquired the common tongue words heavy and thick as they spilled from betwixt his lips, hinting subtly at his interest. He wasn't ...opposed. It might even be wise to lay low, at least he could find out which of his half siblings he would have to kill to claim Ragnar's throne for his own. But he was in no current position to claim anything and Rigr knew that. What she offered beyond simply escorting him on his way might prove to be worth his while and he was intrigued.

Bi-colored gaze had taken note of the male that stood a good distance away, watching, but he paid him little mind, intent to focus upon Saena.

She was in pain but Rigr had assumed as much when he'd noted her wounds. Still, she held her ground, resolute against him despite her pain. Her will, the viking thought, must have been extraordinary. He was impressed by her, which was hardly an easy feat. Regardless of what happened, whether he stayed or he went he would surely remember Saena. He followed after her as she led the way to where her pack waited, raising a question to counter his own. Rigr was not adverse to physical communication. It was more natural but besides that — as she had witnessed — he struggled with the common tongue. Not as bad as some in Svartalfheim. Some could not even speak it at all. He slowed his steps to follow behind her, ears cupping forth towards her as she posed yet another question. “At first,” He began licking his chops. “I was going to pass through,” That had been his original intent before he realized the Vale was claimed and even at first when she made her presence known to him. “but now I am …,” He took a small pause between his words, searching for the right one and it's translation. “— ráðabrugg ...intrigued.” Whether it was the answer she sought or not Rigr was not sure but nevertheless it rung true. He did not admit that it was she that intrigued him the very most. It didn't really matter. She intrigued him and by extension so did her pack and that was the truth of it.

“Maybe I will,” He knew his father's throne sat empty — lest that had been the last word anyone had heard about the late Jarl but the distance between Eldingar and Teekon was vast and by the time news reached the Vikings that conquered the Valley it was old news to the wolves of Teekon Wilds — but he knew he needed more accurate information, needed to catch himself up and investigate the going-on's before determining his next step and that could take months. Winter would be upon them in a few weeks time, Rigr knew (if the chill in bitter air was of any indication) and he never had considered himself to be a impatient beast. There was much work to be done but it would be wise to hunker down for the winter months, run with a pack as he gathered the knowledge he sought and would need. “It would be wise to settle for the veturinn...ah... vinter?" No, that didn't sound right. "Winter. Perhaps I will run with you for a while, if you will have me.” The truth was Rigr did not truly know what the future held in store for him. Only the Norns and Gods did.

Rigr watched as the pack moved in around him, sniffing him, one clamping his jaws around Rigr's marred muzzle, while another went for his rump. The invasion and swarm left the hyper-vigilant devourer on edge but he was submissive and complacent for them to investigate as they desired. It was their way but Rigr could not deny that it left him feeling exposed (though that was the point, more or less). The male he had noticed earlier approached next, dominant in posture, and Rigr submitted for him as well, tucking his ears, head and tail to a subservient posture recognizing and acknowledging the one eyed (as to whom Rigr thought of Odin upon instinct) male as his superior as the other male explored and passed his scent to him.