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+--- Thread: Blackfeather Woods death gazes in all directions, as curious as a hand, with blind eyes (/showthread.php?tid=22929)
death gazes in all directions, as curious as a hand, with blind eyes - Kjalarr - August 20, 2017
maybe @Potema? ;-) but all welcome — i haven't decided if this is a joining thread or not :0!
Kjalarr seeks out the dark woods as the boy Vaati had described to him back when he’d first met him near the base of the Sawtooth Spire. Their deal had fallen through and Kjalarr had headed into the deep, frigid tundra that lay in the far north. The fresh, angry maroon scars that mar the flesh of his left eye smart with a phantom pain. The nerves in the marred flesh are long since dead but he remembers the excruciating pain — just as he had once felt on his muzzle but those scars are old, faded and flesh pink with time. A low huff leaves the ásabragr’s lips as his pace slows, heavy footfalls growing quiet against the bracken as he nears the borders. The stench: metallic scent of blood mingled with the sickly sweet scent of decay marry together to create a scent that gets it’s message across: stay away. This display does not phase him …how could it when he’s done so much worse? There are worse things than mutilating wolves …like supping upon their flesh. It had been done out of desperation, out of the instinct to survive but that does not erase it from his mind.
He stops a respectful way from their borders, wishing that he had the woman’s name. He could not recall if Vaati ever mentioned it or not; though he thinks he suspects who she might be. Ondine was not the first woman he had coupled with during her heat season and the boy was about the same age as Arrille himself ( the boy, Atli assumed was safe and sound in Neverwinter Forest with his mother ) which only left the mysterious woman he’d lain with first. Freyja, he had called her for the need to call her something. He tips his head back and lets out a low howl, announcing his presence wondering if his memory serves him correct and if his suspicions will be right or not. And if he is what he will say …if anything at all.
He knows he should have went to Neverwinter Forest first but Kjalarr acts on impulse and his impulse gravitates him here.
He stops a respectful way from their borders, wishing that he had the woman’s name. He could not recall if Vaati ever mentioned it or not; though he thinks he suspects who she might be. Ondine was not the first woman he had coupled with during her heat season and the boy was about the same age as Arrille himself ( the boy, Atli assumed was safe and sound in Neverwinter Forest with his mother ) which only left the mysterious woman he’d lain with first. Freyja, he had called her for the need to call her something. He tips his head back and lets out a low howl, announcing his presence wondering if his memory serves him correct and if his suspicions will be right or not. And if he is what he will say …if anything at all.
He knows he should have went to Neverwinter Forest first but Kjalarr acts on impulse and his impulse gravitates him here.
RE: death gazes in all directions, as curious as a hand, with blind eyes - Potema - August 22, 2017
Her heat ebbed, then faded, but Potema wandered away from the Woods for a long time until she was sure that she was no longer fertile. Only then did she return to the Woods.
But it seemed that her heat reached far and wide, and dragged her former lovers to her. First Vandal, whom she had left to escape Sheogorath, now, the behemoth by the borders.
She was behind him when she heard his summons, the resemblance between his pelt and Vaati's, as well as the memory of their coupling letting him last in her mind. She was quiet for a moment, not bothering to hide herself before calling out to him.
What are you doing here?
RE: death gazes in all directions, as curious as a hand, with blind eyes - Kjalarr - August 22, 2017
The northman’s ears swivel and he glimpses over his shoulder at the sound of footfalls approach but it is not until she speaks to him that he turns that he knows it is her. The mysterious woman he’d coupled with so many months ago. He’s had several lovers but he remembers them all. He remembers Ondine because he had taken her briefly as his mate; a mistake. Not the first he’s ever made in his life and likely far from his last. What they said about the apple never falling from the tree: it was true. Kjalarr had gotten his wish: he is just like Ragnar. Jarl, killer, libertine and a shitty absent father. His suspicions all fall into place as he takes her in with his good, right eye. She looks the same as he remembers though this time she is not cloaked by the shadows of the night and she is not putting off that saccharine scent that has always been a temptation he is not wont to ignore ( call it the viking in him ). Her vague shadow, in his ruined left eye, is a like a will-o-wisp. It writhes in and out of sight though she remains firm and real before him witnessed by his right eye.
“Vaati is my flesh and blood.” Not a question but a statement as it spills from betwixt his lips in the rough hewn, lilting accent of the northmen. Though there is a slight lift of scarred brow as he seeks a final confirmation ( though in truth he does not need it ). He is the right age, he looks like him. “We made a deal when we met for the first time I would show him Sawtooth Spire and he would bring me here, to you. Things happened and the deal never followed through.” Kjalarr had set out on a selfish journey to find himself. What he found, who he uncovered with the help of the Cove, it’s wolves and it’s rituals would have been alarming to his younger self and that the power of self prophecy was indeed strong. He wanted to be like Ragnar so much, a false illusion of the man painted by those whom had not wished to disrespect his memory and Atli got his hearts desire at many merciless costs. “Is he well?” Kjalarr is not sure if he has the right to ask it, not sure if she ever wanted him to know. They’d been strangers and he had known that a child he would never know had been apart of the plan if his seed had taken within her womb. Despite this, the Norns had deigned to intervene and push the father and son to meet and it has haunted his subconscious since: easy to put aside to indulge his selfish tendencies but remained a growing pestilence until finally he caved into it.
“He will know me as Kjalarr,” The northman’s salmon pink tongue draws across his jowls as he considers that the nourisher hardly fits him anymore — if it’d ever fit him at all. “but I go by Atli now. Atli Skrælingjar.” The terrible savage. What a ( horribly ) prophetic foresight from the seer of the Cove. A name that fit him much better than any he’s had before. He no longer seeks Ragnar’s legacy but instead strives to build his own. Charon had once told him he wasn’t a Lodbrok and he’d been right. The northman falls silent now, frosted milky and icy, crystalline gaze falls upon her as he wonders if she will chase him off and half hoping that she does not.
“Vaati is my flesh and blood.” Not a question but a statement as it spills from betwixt his lips in the rough hewn, lilting accent of the northmen. Though there is a slight lift of scarred brow as he seeks a final confirmation ( though in truth he does not need it ). He is the right age, he looks like him. “We made a deal when we met for the first time I would show him Sawtooth Spire and he would bring me here, to you. Things happened and the deal never followed through.” Kjalarr had set out on a selfish journey to find himself. What he found, who he uncovered with the help of the Cove, it’s wolves and it’s rituals would have been alarming to his younger self and that the power of self prophecy was indeed strong. He wanted to be like Ragnar so much, a false illusion of the man painted by those whom had not wished to disrespect his memory and Atli got his hearts desire at many merciless costs. “Is he well?” Kjalarr is not sure if he has the right to ask it, not sure if she ever wanted him to know. They’d been strangers and he had known that a child he would never know had been apart of the plan if his seed had taken within her womb. Despite this, the Norns had deigned to intervene and push the father and son to meet and it has haunted his subconscious since: easy to put aside to indulge his selfish tendencies but remained a growing pestilence until finally he caved into it.
“He will know me as Kjalarr,” The northman’s salmon pink tongue draws across his jowls as he considers that the nourisher hardly fits him anymore — if it’d ever fit him at all. “but I go by Atli now. Atli Skrælingjar.” The terrible savage. What a ( horribly ) prophetic foresight from the seer of the Cove. A name that fit him much better than any he’s had before. He no longer seeks Ragnar’s legacy but instead strives to build his own. Charon had once told him he wasn’t a Lodbrok and he’d been right. The northman falls silent now, frosted milky and icy, crystalline gaze falls upon her as he wonders if she will chase him off and half hoping that she does not.
RE: death gazes in all directions, as curious as a hand, with blind eyes - Potema - August 22, 2017
He turns to her. There is no need for confirmation as there was for him. She knows who he is. He is unmistakable; broad and tall, with tan stockings on platinum fur, and pallid eyes — no. There is one eye now, matching her own. She does not remember that, but the freshness of his wounds and the strange way he moves to focus her in the singular eye suggests that he sustained the wound just recently.
She steps closer, recalling how frightening and unfamiliar it had been when she was first half-blinded. She knows nothing of his monochromacy, but moves even still. Her face shifts towards surprise; he had already met his son. She would have offered to summon him hadn't she known, but resigned herself to question her son about this later on.
He is. He has grown quite fast; I daresay he is nearly as tall as you,She does not know how long ago this encounter between father and son was, but it was a give in. Vaati was the tallest of her children so far, long since passing her, now finishing the growing-race between him and Ganon.
My name is Potema Melonii,It had taken nearly a year, or even more, for her to learn her lover's name, and for him to learn hers. Much had changed since then; she might be pregnant again. She shuddered at the thought. Only one male had mated with her during her heat cycle; her brother, or some splintered part of her brother's mind.
I am the Listener here; the High Priestess,She does not know how long he had been in Teekon Wilds, or if he even knew what wolves made their home in the dark woods to the far east.
And...She hesitated, unsure if it was a good idea for her to propose this in the first place.
I implore you to stay,
RE: death gazes in all directions, as curious as a hand, with blind eyes - Kjalarr - August 23, 2017
She moves closer and takes her in with his good eye as if it is the first time. He supposes, in some ways, it is. There had been no conversation, no thought: only primal need sate the fire her estrus cycle had created. A soft, weary smile tugs at the corners of the northman’s lips and he lets out a soft, mirthless laugh. Two sons. He has two sons both whom had ( more or less ) grown up without him. Just as he’d grown up without his — except the difference is that Ragnar had been killed while he was still alive, trying to fix his errors and mucking it all up in the process. Mistakes were inevitable and everyone made them; else no one could grow, could learn. Potema. Atli’s salmon pink tongue draws across his jowls as he tucks her name away. She’d cross his thoughts from time to time but he’d never thought he’d know her, that he’d ever properly meet her; and it truly hadn’t been a desire until he’d met Vaati, easily mistaken for Arrille.
“Potema,” He repeats her name, testing it on his tongue, ears twitching to hear how it sounds in his lilting accent. It sounds nice, he thinks. He does not recognize her surname but is not overly bothered by it because she will not recognize his. Like the name, like the scars and the all but blindness: it is new; but it is well earned. His ears cup forth as she tells him that she is a Listener, and a High Priestess. He knows nothing about them, about their culture or their Gods ( something he safely assumes they have as she calls herself a priestess ) and the Atli is left to assume that she is in a position of power. This assumption is confirmed when she beseeches him to stay.
Atli hadn’t necessarily came here with the intention of joining but there is something about her that causes him to say, “Ok.” I will stay. It strikes him as a bit strange, to implore a lover ( one of many ) that she barely knows to stay and he cannot erase the sneaking suspicion that she may be afraid of something or someone. He doesn’t know for sure, of course, it’s just a theory and one he does not dare to bring to attention because they don’t know each other well enough and he does not wish to insult her ( especially if he is wrong ). “I bring with me my fighting skills and scouting abilities,” Because this has been far from a typical joining process and he feels the need to inform her that he has plenty to contribute to the pack even though she had not asked. “I am yours to command, High Priestess.” His head sweeps low in a bow like gesture. Priestesses in his culture are revered almost as much as the Gods themselves; more-so than the Jarls, Earls and Kings and that way of thinking is so deeply ( and painfully) engraved in his mind that breaking it would be impossible.
“Potema,” He repeats her name, testing it on his tongue, ears twitching to hear how it sounds in his lilting accent. It sounds nice, he thinks. He does not recognize her surname but is not overly bothered by it because she will not recognize his. Like the name, like the scars and the all but blindness: it is new; but it is well earned. His ears cup forth as she tells him that she is a Listener, and a High Priestess. He knows nothing about them, about their culture or their Gods ( something he safely assumes they have as she calls herself a priestess ) and the Atli is left to assume that she is in a position of power. This assumption is confirmed when she beseeches him to stay.
Atli hadn’t necessarily came here with the intention of joining but there is something about her that causes him to say, “Ok.” I will stay. It strikes him as a bit strange, to implore a lover ( one of many ) that she barely knows to stay and he cannot erase the sneaking suspicion that she may be afraid of something or someone. He doesn’t know for sure, of course, it’s just a theory and one he does not dare to bring to attention because they don’t know each other well enough and he does not wish to insult her ( especially if he is wrong ). “I bring with me my fighting skills and scouting abilities,” Because this has been far from a typical joining process and he feels the need to inform her that he has plenty to contribute to the pack even though she had not asked. “I am yours to command, High Priestess.” His head sweeps low in a bow like gesture. Priestesses in his culture are revered almost as much as the Gods themselves; more-so than the Jarls, Earls and Kings and that way of thinking is so deeply ( and painfully) engraved in his mind that breaking it would be impossible.
RE: death gazes in all directions, as curious as a hand, with blind eyes - Potema - August 28, 2017
it's very late and i have to wake up early so i am sorry if i started rambling somewhere lol
She watches his face, mostly studying his wound, but is taken offguard when he laughs softly. There is nothing, at least that she is aware of, that deserves a laugh within their conversation. But Potema was used to stranger folk, much stranger folk, than he, and passes off the incident without question, at least for the moment. If it came up again, she would ask, though she doubted that he would even recall the situation.
He speaks her name, the sound of it from his strangely accented voice foreign and beautiful at the same time. She has yet to place the words he spoke and the tinge of his voice. It's delightfully alien to her, and continued to add to the allure remaining from their first encounter.
It felt strange to allow an outsider in so quickly, so easily. She knew she was breaking the promise she had made with her brother, but with Damien's mental state, it would make no difference. Atli, if he stayed through the winter, if he could bear the darkness that his son had grown up in, would be an asset to the stagnating pack. More than that, for her own selfish reasons, he would be there to protect her.
She was without a doubt pregnant. No other male had touched her since Sheogorath, unlike her first heat. Whatever sick pleasure Sheogorath had taken from her was hopefully over, but she had no idea what else her brother had planned for her and the children he fathered.
Come with me,She beckoned him to follow her, past the blood and bones that marked their borders.
This is Blackfeather Woods,Knowing nothing of him, she introduced him to the Woods as if he was a true outsider, speaking with practiced authority after time after time of speaking on their religion and beliefs and history. He thought her to be a true High Priestess; she was not sure if she believed herself to be of the same caliber. But for him, she would try to be.
RE: death gazes in all directions, as curious as a hand, with blind eyes - Kjalarr - August 28, 2017
She invites him to cross the borders and the berserker does as he is bid to do ( quite a change of pace from what he’s been used to ) and cross over the borders of pungent blood and littered with bones. Such displays do not faze him — after what he had lowered himself to do to survive the famine Atli knows there is nothing that can faze him anymore. There is no limit he would not cross to survive, even if it meant cannibalism. He knows the taste of wolf flesh, sinew and blood, knows it’s texture and knows that it nurtures just as well as any other meat. He’d contemplated eating his daughters to dispose of their bodies when he’d had to kill them, to put them out of their suffering. He didn’t simply because he hadn’t wanted to explain the lack of graves to Ondine; didn’t feel like going in to depth as to why his moral compass no longer pointed in a righteous direction. Atli hasn’t been righteous in a very long time: leading Odinn’s Cove had shown him that. It unlocked his mind from the bothersome constraints of high morals. The laws of the northmen are very different from the laws of the more refined wolves of the Wilds.
He focuses back in on Potema, keeping her in his good eye, his frosted, milky eye taking in the shadows of trees that writhe and dissipate like smoke. She introduces the place as Blackfeather Woods. “Vaati called it the dark woods,” Atli remembers aloud, struggling for a moment as to why there was need to hide the true name of the forest behind a similar alias. Northmen aren’t known for hiding, admittedly. He does not ask Potema out right if he is meant to keep what he sees, hears and does in these Woods secret to those outside of it’s ranks but it is heavily implied in his recollection of how Vaati had concealed the true name of the Woods from him.
“In my culture priests and priestess are as highly revered as the Gods themselves,” Atli states as he keeps pace with her, a flirtatious note to his tone. “Is that true here?” because I wouldn’t mind worshipping you. He does not speak this aloud, either, but he makes no means to hide that he is attracted to her without the saccharine lure of estrus. He does not forget the enigmatic night of passion they shared to conceive Vaati; dominated by hormones and temptations that neither could ignore or not. It was memorable and it stands out against the other nights he’s shared.
He focuses back in on Potema, keeping her in his good eye, his frosted, milky eye taking in the shadows of trees that writhe and dissipate like smoke. She introduces the place as Blackfeather Woods. “Vaati called it the dark woods,” Atli remembers aloud, struggling for a moment as to why there was need to hide the true name of the forest behind a similar alias. Northmen aren’t known for hiding, admittedly. He does not ask Potema out right if he is meant to keep what he sees, hears and does in these Woods secret to those outside of it’s ranks but it is heavily implied in his recollection of how Vaati had concealed the true name of the Woods from him.
“In my culture priests and priestess are as highly revered as the Gods themselves,” Atli states as he keeps pace with her, a flirtatious note to his tone. “Is that true here?” because I wouldn’t mind worshipping you. He does not speak this aloud, either, but he makes no means to hide that he is attracted to her without the saccharine lure of estrus. He does not forget the enigmatic night of passion they shared to conceive Vaati; dominated by hormones and temptations that neither could ignore or not. It was memorable and it stands out against the other nights he’s shared.
RE: death gazes in all directions, as curious as a hand, with blind eyes - Potema - September 01, 2017
He obeys. She is not sure where he comes from where those of religious training were so favored by the laymen, but she appreciates the obedience from him. The lack of persuasion required to sway him to her side was startling, and she wonders what else he truly wants from her. Or if he knew what she truly wanted from him.
The witch was not sure if revealing the (seemingly) inherently incestuous nature of her family was a good idea. She wanted to keep him here, for her own selfish protection, and, if these children were to live, the protection of their lives from their uncle-father. He was clearly stronger than Cicero, but she was a fool to think that would be enough to protect her. Perhaps, she would be safe from outward, physical attacks, like those that led to their coupling. But, her brother was a spy by nature and trade, a poisoner and deceiver. If anything, she would have to warn him about skeletal, mottled wolf with the dual-toned eyes that .
A fitting name for outsiders at least,She tipped her head up to regard the shadowed canopy above. The leaves here were dark and heavy, near black in some cases, filtering light from the sun above and putting them in perpetual night.
Easy to understand and point out in the Flatlands,From a distance, she always noted that her home was a recognizable black splotch in the far east of the Wilds, looming and towering over the grasslands like some kind of forboding and haunted dark castle. The stereotypical dark woods out of an old grandmother's tales of good and evil.
Potema looked to him, at first curious at learning about his birth culture and religion, then turning away. She smirked, nearly giggling at his flirtatious comment.
Unfortunately no,While powerful, she and her mother were still recognized as mortals, playthings in Mephala's Web. She had no desire to burden the schemes and plots and intrigues of people all over the world and planes beyond as Mephala did. But he wasn't really talking about that now was he?
But I wouldn't mind it at all. I daresay I'd enjoy it,
RE: death gazes in all directions, as curious as a hand, with blind eyes - Kjalarr - September 01, 2017
“So why is it called Blackfeather Woods?” He inquires as he glances around, reminding himself to focus with his good eye and not the eye that it nearly rendered useless. He is not entirely blind in it but he might as well be, and he thinks ( not for the first time ) that it is a good thing he’s never feared the unknown or dark. “or is it’s name more metaphorical?” He thinks of Stavanger Bay then and how it’s name related to the territory: staff of ash bay. A bay whose woods was made up of ash trees; a sacred tree. Saplings of Yggdrasil itself. “Hm,” The northman draws, contemplative as she responds that priestesses are not as revered in her culture as they are in his culture. “That’s a shame.” The ásabragr murmurs. “but I suppose it’s a good thing I have a penchant for breaking rules.” He purls with a beguiling smirk tugging at the edges of his lips. Authority and Atli very rarely ever get along; a fact that many would attest to; but he’s always been entitled, rebellious and selfish; and that was likely never going to change.
RE: death gazes in all directions, as curious as a hand, with blind eyes - Potema - September 02, 2017
The birds. Ravens and crows,Their caws were frequently heard all over the forest, but they were currently in a rather isolated spot. Usually the calls of the corvids was enough to answer a newcomer's questions. But soon enough, Atli would learn about them. They were too present, too numerous a presence to ignore for long.
He flirted and Potema countered, but Potema was no warrior either with her body or with words. Eventually she fell to his blows, consigning herself to a soft hum in response rather than anything witty or intelligent. She had shown her interest, and that was enough. She focused herself instead on finding the tunnel entrance nearest here; they were all visually well hidden, this one under a large bush whose branches spread out over the entrance.
There is a tunnel system underneath the Woods. We call it Mephala's Web for our Goddess,She gestured to the tunnel's entrance,
Our infirmary and herbs are down there, called Meldresi's Keep after my mother,She supposed in a way she had lied to him. They had worshipped their priestesses like gods, but only after they had passed. Or only Meldresi. Potema herself didn't expect to be worshipped like Mother had, commemorated with a territory named after her.