ever since his first trip to these wilds where the common tongue was spoke in full wardruna has learned to relish silence. a lot could be said without words and it was better than embarrassing himself as he stumbles over the common tongue and all their words. the northern language did not have quite so many and one word in his native tongue could mean several different ones in common. it all depended, he'd learned, on how he intended to use it. he keeps imrithal to his left in her peripheral vision as they travel. he does it out of what he feels is necessity, liking to assure himself that imrithal is still with him ...not that he expects him to abandon him. still, it is a fear that wardruna lives with. despite his best efforts not to, the northener grows attached to his companions.

they move alongside the snaking qeya river, their heading due west as imrithal chose. wardruna's not sure what they're going to find ( if much of anything ) but if he's learned one thing it's that these wilds are always in a state of constant flux. regimes rise and regimes fall ...it appears to be the natural state of life here. wardruna catches the silent question imrithal asks with a look as chunks of ice float along the river as they pass. "a jökull," he makes a noise in the back of his throat as he searches for a way to communicate 'glacier' between the tongues. it should translate easily enough but wardruna struggles to grasp it's common word equivalent. "big ice. what is the big ice called?" he's been to duskfire glacier before and he points in it's direction with a gesture of his muzzle, trying to hide his frustration at his inability to translate between the tongues as well as he'd like to.

it appeared that the word that wardruna sought escaped imrathil too as the northerner's gaze flickered to a small chunk of ice that drifted lackadaisically past them, carried along by the river's current. it would nag at wardruna's mind for a while, especially if imrathil was not able to produce the translation but 'big ice' was a simple enough translation that imrathil appeared to understand. glacier. the word finally came to imrathil and wardruna's singular gaze flickered back to the ankyrian with a noise of acknowledgement in his throat. yes, that's it the noise communicates. "guh-lay-shur," wardruna repeats the word slowly, forcing his tongue to sound it out. the word feels clumsy and soft. "common tongue is so soft." he mutters his absentminded complaint under his breath.

wardruna turned his head, allowing his gaze to focus on the ice floe in lieu of imrathil, though the scarred ankyrian remained within the edge of his peripheral. wardruna liked to keep him in his line of sight, in a manner that is not meant as controlling ( as it had been for his ex-wives ) and more for his own private comfort. those abandonment ( and exile ) issues were rough. beyond that, keeping his companions in his line of sight in some form or another was also merely out of habit. he might've pretended like he could still see out of the eye with permanent hyphema whose surrounding flesh is scarred but it was all a show. a lovingly crafted deception in order to keep the ex-berserker's intimidation level up.

wardruna is quiet for a long moment as he pre-contemplates through his words. "i have never seen it in a river," he agrees with a soft pause, recollecting his thoughts and the messy translations crossing wires in his head. "but in the élivágar sea close to jötunn spine chunks from a ...gla — jökull — was common." the black beaches and icy waters of wardruna's homeland(s) was a stretch of territories that appeared to be plucked straight from niflheim itself and he thinks of them with a bittersweet fondness. the gods have barred him from them. that was the price of their continued favor: he could never return and he paid it. not because he was noble and it was the way of their culture but because he was, at his core, a selfish beast.

a familiar and common silence settles over them as they presumably each watch the ice flow down the river. presumably, because while wardruna watches the ice float and bob and choke it's way down the river his focus is not on imrathil — a personal if not subtle sign of trust that not many ever have the privilege of knowing from him. as much as wardruna fears abandonment he also fears affection, feeling affection. he desires little more than to choke affection out of existence within himself ...it chokes him in defiance instead.

wardruna is briefly alarmed at the quiet question that comes from his companion as it draws him from the darkened path of his thoughts. and it takes the northener a few seconds to understand that imrathil is asking about jötunn spine. "it is cold almost all seasons," wardruna begins after a few seconds longer, inhaling and let it out in a soft albeit heavy sigh. "the seers say that the spine — a ring of small ah, ...moun...mountains that protect the pack — was formed by a jötunn pup that got lost and died. over time his bones became the mountains, his life blood became the river and his skin ah...," he pauses grappling for the word 'nourish' but when it does not come to him settles for, "gave life to the forest." probably wasn't the best story to tell children but the seers were not known for candy-coating their beliefs from the pups of the spine. "the élivágar sea is made of black sand and icy waters. not good to swim in but good for hunting big water prey." especially if one was looking for whales and walruses.

"there is always war. in the pack and out of it. we fight to to ah, make our claimed lands bigger. anyone can fight to be leader. you fight to the death," wardruna sojourns here in his telling of his homeland. it is still sore, still the source of all his rage at the world. "and if you lose and do not die they do not see you as chosen by the gods. to them you are cursed. they ban...ish — banish you. and your pups and your pup's pups." he finishes more bitterly than he means to. he is surprised ( perhaps pleasantly so, strangely ) that he manages to tell it relatively well in the common tongue despite the usual stumbles here and there. wardruna takes a heavy breath and finishes softly, "it is a cruel and harsh place." and he misses it terribly.

wardruna shoulders the burden of his banishment alone. he does not speak of it often, and only speaks of it now because imrathil had asked ...and as disturbing as the knowledge may be to the northerner he does not desire to keep secrets from imrathil. that kind of trust frightens wardruna more than he'd care to admit. you miss it. imrathil speaks after wardruna finishes telling about jötunn spine. wardruna almost makes a noise of denial but he recognizes it's useless and catches it mid-way. the sound chokes off and is replaced by a quiet "já." of confirmation. there should be no homesickness for the place that had cast the brazen, young and overly ambitious commander out for failing to die.

"no. the old fight until death. just the crippled and cursed are not welcome." and it was insulting to be cast lower than the old and feeble. wardruna will never be the warrior he'd been before the hyphema ...before the gods took his vision in his left eye. but he can still fight. and if trepidation grasps him and the gods do not favor him in the fight he is wily enough to weasel his way out of it. knowledge was power, after all and he was ruthless enough to use it as a weapon. an ear flickers towards imrathil followed by his singular gaze as the scarred ankyrian mentions that they might find something similar in the teekon wilds and if they couldn't find it then they could make it themselves.

it is not a foreign idea to wardruna. he'd intended to create one with his wives but things had gone astray and slowly their numbers dwindled. he looks to imrathil with a soft furrow of his brow, contemplating before he looks back to the ice littered river, watching it with a thousand yard stare. "i worry." wardruna breaks his silence, feeling the words crawl up his throat like a prisoner who's just found the light at the end of his hand dug tunnel. "about you. ...and that you would not be welcome," feelings were messy. feelings were hard to speak, to put into words not meant for wardruna himself ( and even those were hard ). "i will not go where you are turned away." he admits firmly, his mind already made on the matter.

wardruna's ears swivel atop his skull and he shifts his weight. "maybe the only way to get it right is to make a place for us.." wardruna thinks aloud, looking then to imrathil to judge the other male's reaction.

imrathil reminds him that just as he would not be welcome neither would wardruna. as bitter as it made him feel — that churning sea of rage and resentment for that need for idyllic perfection that everyone seems to have: that prejudice towards disfigurement and disabilities ...as if bodies is all they have to offer the world — imrathil is ultimately right. wardruna sees his and imrathil's survival as a gift of the gods. a cruel gift, surely, but when are they not cruel? their ability to survive terrible things should make them more valuable. not less. wardruna grumbles unintelligibly but in agreement under his breath — a hybrid language of northern and common that made no sense even to him. he grumbled just to grumble.

he was too young to be this grumpy. gods only knew what he'd be like when he was actually an old man. assuming he lived that long, of course.

we're a sorry lot.

"i think that is wrong," wardruna protests, clicking his teeth together. not angry at imrathil — he doesn't think he ever could be — but at the judgement of wolves who have not seen half of what either of the pair have. "we are more strong than them." he huffs his belief, tail lashing against his hocks ...but even as the words hang in the air between them he knows that in the long run he's of a general unpopular opinion. last time he hadn't been turned away but he rather thinks it had been the presence of his wives that had weighed in his favor.

wardruna draws in a deep breath, the faint scent of a pack tickling his black, leathery nostrils. an area heavily populated with packs might pose a problem. adding onto what might already be a challenge for them. it occurs to wardruna that two cripples might have trouble recruiting and if they do not that they might have trouble with wolves of peak condition thinking that they can usurp. nothing was without a risk, they just had to decide which risk they'd rather take. try to build their own empire or subjugate themselves to someone else's. take the chance of attempted takeover or be turned away because of their conditions.

"there is much land in the south." there are a lot of neutral territories that they hadn't even covered yet and the northerner is not easily despondent by the fact that the taiga already has claims. he's not one to get attached to land. it's the way of life and sometimes the wolves that he grows attached to.