forwarded a few days after this
familiar chill of a land left behind nips like a greeting at the hale norseman as he leaves behind the tangle and crosses the threshold into the fields of barrow; full of rolling grassy knolls and mounds that look like the burial mounds of their
jarls. unlike burial mounds these do not bear the stacked stones and alters of bone and rotting flesh; gifts to the gods and to their forebearers. so what, then is their purpose, synin cannot help but wonder as he sniffs at one such mound. if there are wolven scents they are faint and unfamiliar; none that linger. was it possible these were made by ymir’s flesh and muscles? as the rocky spires that twist titanous were crafted from his bones?
without any other explanation, synin believes it must be so. not wolven made by natural occurrences in the creation of the world.
magna lets out a caw from where she circles above, the flutter of her wings drawing right glacial eye; though there is a familiar prickle of unease as this leaves left hole where his eye was sacrifice to the allfather to face the foreign world and any that may be lurking.
til minn, magna.
synin croons affectionately to his albino companion, letting out a low rumble as she descends and lights upon his shoulder, a small lift of his lips the only implication of pain that prickles his flesh as her claws dig into warhardened flesh.
After Eartha had sent him up north after the pack that had sleighted her, Hawkes had made it his mission to find them. And truly, he rather liked being alone, traveling without the stress of impressing his new leader and the constant worry of not doing enough, and perhaps being drowned in the sea. Or would they all rip him to shreds before they sank his body beneath the waves? He couldn't be sure.
All he knew was that he didn't like this place. There was something... off, about it. Like maybe he was being watched. And Hawkes hated being watched - he was the observer, not the other way around.
But he was not alone here, in this field with these strange formations. Another - a larger wolf, with a strange... growth on his shoulder - stood staring at the mounds as well. Hawkes normally would not approach, but he believed it would be nice to speak to someone right now. After all, he hadn't spoken to anyone in days.
But as he made toward the other wolf, he realized that the growth was not much of a growth at all. A bird sat on this stranger as though it was completely comfortable.
Weird.
"Does that bird always sit on you?" the young pirate inquired, red tail flicking behind him. He halted several meters away, unwilling to get too much closer to a complete stranger. Hawkes was fast, not a fighter, and he didn't want to test his mettle today.
does that bird always sit on you?
raspy voice of the earthbrown clad stranger — of whose flick of red tail does not go unnoticed by acute glacial gaze — draws norseman’s attention which seeks it’s newest target in the disappointing aftermath of deciding these mounds were not funeral mounds but simply nature made. of course, perhaps some more investigating might reveal otherwise but even so the dead deserve their rest. he was a raider, yes; but not a tombraider. graves were sacred and he ( wrongly, perhaps ) assumes that belief transcends culture.
scarfleshed side of his face were a twin glacial eye once sat lifts slightly in magna’s direction, feeling the preen of her beak against the softfur at the junction of his ear. hon er minn auga.
unwilling to relent his native tongue in this strangeland he speaks first with it and second with common. this is magna. she is my companion.
he traverses the secondary language with well-practiced fluidity; though his words are heavily accented with the natural nuances his native tongue called forth.