Though spring had come and greenery was beginning to sprout, the air was still kissed by a breath of winter -- bitter and stinging as it bit against the sensitive flesh of her ears and nose. The cloudberry had pulled a warm wolverine skin about her shoulders, grateful for the added warmth as she left the Spine.
Much as new life dotted the bare branches of the trees in the mountains and blossomed in the reeds of the steppes, new spirits nested in her womb. The sickness had passed, for which the bird-watcher was eternally grateful. In its wake she had grown rather hungry -- as if to make up for the spells of nausea that had struck -- and the rounding of her sides could not be attributed to the increase in food intake. The mother had yet to feel the dancing of the babes in her belly but she looked forward it to with great anticipation.
Knowing now that her dalliance with the sea-wolf had been successful, Lótë dared to seek out the Bay. The world did not seem so safe as it once had -- not after the bear had marked her, or the stranger in the Forest had attacked. The doe's emeralds shifted warily, ears flickering and muzzle lifting to scent the air almost constantly -- not willing to be caught off guard and accosted. Such was bad enough on a regular basis, but the thought of carrying children made her especially cautious.
The dove kept a fair pace, stopping only when she neared the low cliffs that ringed the Bay. It was a sense of propriety that kept her from trying to pick her way across them, rather than her newfound condition. Even if she did need to speak to Kjalarr, it seemed rather rude to simply wander into his claim -- even if it was not yet official. Thus, Aiwë lingered just outside the newly marked borders, curling her haunches beneath herself as she sent up a howl for the pale guardian.
though it takes kjalarr a moment to process the call at the border markers that he kept marking despite that he has noticed that those he had begun to gather have left and not returned in many moons. there had been four, five ( maybe ) of them; once. now there was him and dashiell.
this recent development troubles him; clouding his mind with distracting thoughts and contemplations.
still, he finds his way to the borders all the same; surprise fading as he recognizes lótë. he offers her a soft chuff of greeting.
Lótë dipped her head as the pale behemoth approached, a faint and friendly smile crossing her lips. "I greet you, Kjalarr," she murmured to the beachcomber. "How are things faring here?" She would wait to hear his response before turning the conversation towards the reason for her visit, peridots shining with happiness for them both -- for they both seemed inclined to the idea of children.
"It seems your totem bested my own." Not an easy task to defeat the spirit of the great brown bear, but if anyone seemed up to the feat then surely it was the warrior before her. Kjalarr was vastly scarred but by looking at him, one would guess he'd won every fight even at the loss of some flesh and an eye. His spirit must be even stronger, such was the way of things. "I will bear children when the summer approaches."
"I wondered if you had any names in mind. Or if your people had customs regarding newly born cubs I should follow once they're born?" A slight, curious cock of her head to accompany these words.
though there are some lingering concerns about whether stavanger bay would come to fruition or not, he keeps them to himself; for the moment. it is not something he wishes to burden her with. though kjalarr has employed patience thus far: he knows he must hold strong. the favorable seasons and weather might keep potential recruits at bay, if only because they did not feel the pressure of needing a pack. well enough.
he offers with a small twitch of his lips into the ghost of a smile.
for a moment, he is confused about her mention of his totem besting her own, then understanding dawns upon him at her following words: that she was with children. his children. kjalarr is a little surprised, given his age; but nonetheless pleasantly so.
though he has sired many children he knew of ( and surely many more he did not know of ), naming had never been an honor bestowed upon him. or even the consideration of what he would name a child. not at the moment,
kjalarr admits, a bit sheepishly. i will think on some potential names.
he offers in the next breath.
"I'm glad to hear it," Lótë wisped with genuine happiness in regards of the sea-village Kjalarr hoped to build. She thought she caught a hint of surprise in his singular orb of neptune, but it flashed across his scarred features so quickly that the dove couldn't be sure she saw it. Regardless, her lips curled into a wide smile at his own reserved form of joy -- head ducking slightly so that she beamed bashfully at her own dusky paws rather than at the northman.
"If you happen to think of anything, then you know where to find me," the cloudberry chuckled lightly as the words left her lips, raising her head so that shining emeralds of mirth met Kjalarr's gaze once more. She took this to mean there were no specific traditions she need follow to honor the children's paternal lineage, that she might welcome them in the way Moonglow did.
"I will be in the Forest if and when you'd like to discuss it -- and I will see if perhaps @Keyni or another villager might be willing to deliver the news that our cubs are soon to be born."
it is a slow process, this building; but then again he is slower. he has done this several times before and hopes that absent the burning desire to build it right away that perhaps it stands a chance of lasting. or perhaps it wouldn't — he could not pretend to see the weaving tapestry of the norns or what they held in store for him in these last years of his life.
indeed, i do,
kjalarr murmurs in softened agreement. to her mention of sending another to deliver news, kjalarr offers a sage nod of his head. i will be alert for it.
the time will fly by, he knows; perhaps much sooner than he'd be ready for. nevertheless, he makes a mental note to inform dashiell and tove to be on the lookout as well, in case one of her messengers comes and he is out of territory.
"I shall leave you to it then," Lótë lilted softly, fallowskin crown dipping slightly in a teasing gesture and also one of farewell. The ostmen was a taciturn sort of man, one who got his point across with a small amount of words. The cloudberry did not wish to linger until the silence between them grew uncomfortable -- for him or for the both of them. And in any case, there was much to be done in the Forest.
"It was good to see you again, Kjalarr," she murmured with a last smile before gathering herself up and moving to depart, beginning to trot back in the direction she'd come from.