Bramblepoint when the sun is perched at it's highest peak,

for @Cicero Dvořák !!

and he was on the move again, now, for fear-giùlain solais never rests, instead, he scouts, learning with wide, emerald eyes ; fueled by a curiosity that burnt like an inextinguishable flame. past the lake, now, to the woods that sat ahead of it.

he wandered at the treeline, now, looking in with careful precision, examining the trees and the brambles that sat at their bases. the forest smelt almost sweet, and should it not be winter, iseldur was convinced that this place may have been an orchard of fruit trees. but with the passing season, it may not be worth it to venture inwards.

the knight let thoughts preoccupy his mind, now. momentarily unaware.

@Iseldur

with an ever-restless mind, came a man who'd gotten a bit over-zealous in his exploration. far he'd ventured from where he'd entered this territory, deep into the throes. it seemed so bleak, every inch coated in a blanket of soft snow. 

still bitter cold, still stagnant. cicero slinked through the powdered white, seemingly lost in thought, when a figure against the horizon caught his attention. golden, as if kissed by the sun itself, facing the clearing. and unaware; it unnerved him. a surprised stranger could be an angry one. 

half tempted to turn back and trod away, follow the fresh tracks his small paws had left, he'd stepped on a twig. a resounding crack that echoed through the silent woods.

he froze, his jaw tensing. ah, seems there's no escaping this one.

with an awkward clear of his throat, cicero spoke, his voice a low, accented rasp. "enjoying the view?"

he was brought back to the present in an instantaneous moment ; and echoing crack of a twig that made his tall ears twitch, moved his eyes towards the sound. he looked, then, seeking its source, when an image of a short man swathed in midnight found him. an awkward expression upon his face. iseldur's browbone raised for a moment.

no, he returned, an accent of his own thick upon his tongue, teeming, spilling from his lips. it spoke of grian-thalamh, of the cumail. verdant gaze returned to the treeline. considering entrance, the knight murmured. not much within. no longer orchard. you smell sweetness? a faint reminder of the fruit that once belonged to these woods.

a sigh, then looking back to the stranger, he said: empty. waste.

@Iseldur

to his surprise, he's met with an amicable response. cicero tilted his head the slightest as the wolf mentioned a faint, sweet scent. he limped a few steps closer, until they were a comfortable distance apart, and took in lungful of the cool air. 

there it was. sickly sweet, just a hint. he sat on his haunches and gave a thoughtful tilt of his chin. "i do. apples, i believe. such a shame winter has killed them off." he murmured. perhaps these barren lands did hold beauty, when everything would thaw and life would return to these wastelands. 

silver eyes shifted to peer curiously at the stranger. like another wolf he'd met previously, there was an accent to his tongue that cicero couldn't place. how peculiar. "they may be remnants, buried in the snow. perhaps it'd be worth the journey." he commented, settling with an odd sense of peace. one he hadn't felt in many moons. 

"what is your name?"

the stranger walked with an odd step, and iseldur glanced down momentarily at the leg in which he limped on ; seemingly uninjured, he thought. no scar, nor open wounds. perhaps just a weak leg. and so the thought would venture to the back of his mind.

apples, he echoed, faint upon his tongue. a soft hum followed as he gave his own version: ùbhlan. the knight gave a nod, then, looking back to what once would have been a glistening orchard, full of life and wild animals. now, though, the leaves had wilted from the trees, and the brackens littered the grounds. no longer a resource.

remnants, he said. but iseldur shook his head. snow-covered ùbhlan only rot. weather not good for fruit. as the winter did not foster an environment for the apples to neither continue growing nor stay fresh. not only that, but should there be any apples left, a forest creature surely would have already arrived to take the rest for themselves.

iseldur, the sun-man answered. squire, @Cathal, should be nearby. your name?

"ah, you're right. how foolish of me." cicero mused, the corners of his lips twitching into a very brief smile. perhaps even if the fruit had been frozen, they would surely be gone from critters taking their pick. his gaze lingered on the man, before gliding back out toward the clearing. he liked the image of an orchard in bloom. perhaps he'd make note to return here. 

among the various words spoken in a tongue cicero cannot comprehend, he's able to decipher three; names, and that he—Iseldur—has a squire. "you are a knight? it is a pleasure to stand before one again. it has been quite some time." he hummed calmly, a slight rasp to his voice. 

what a noble pursuit. respectable, even. the man is well-mannered and better tempered, and cicero, often an elusive creature, found himself enjoying his presence. "if your squire joins us, i look forward to meet them, as well. what pack do you serve, if i may ask?"

@Iseldur

not foolish, he corrected, an almost-gentleness guiding his words, should his accent not be so rough, so broad against his tongue. some ùbhlan survive. these do not, however. a shake of his head, as if he was disappointed. and he was! most apples were delicious, it was a shame that they vanished come wintertime. sun-man sighed.

no name was answered to him ; perhaps the stranger wished not to share, and to that, iseldur would say nothing. answering questions came easily to him, although his words in common-tongue may be awkward. he wondered if there were any speakers of his mother tongue within these lands asides from his partner. yes. i am knight latha.

cathal... likely that he is around. hope he does not get swooped up by bird, again, when the man had defended him as a pup from a pecking gull, and only a few days ago when the big-beaked bird had hurtled down akin to a death-bullet. he is cù. ah... dog. very tiny. easily picked up, by me, by bird. a dry chuckle, then. almost humoured.

a pack? làithean-òir, our pack. but... ah, no longer. we travel. search for new home. curious, scouting, you see? winter not best time, but we stay strong. mostly i help him. a cheeky grin formed upon his face, then, and he wondered if the boy was nearby, and if so, if he was close enough to hear what the knight had to say. grin fell to a smile.

he looked back at the nameless one, then. you? have pack?

(not me forgetting to introduce cicero RIP)
@Iseldur

"hm, to be a knight is very noble." the man cloaked in midnight replied. his gaze wandered back over, merely to access. iseldur seemed strong, capable. a fine knight he must be. when his squire was revealed to be a dog, cicero's brows raised in subtle surprise. 

how did a dog manage to get out to the wilds? not less a small one, as the knight had revealed. cicero tried to picture the odd duo in his mind; sun-kissed knight and his wee squire. it made him chuckle fondly, before his expression dimmed with idle concern. 

"i do hope he's alright. birds can be such pesky things." he sighed. and then he fell silent, a keen ear turned sideways as he listened to Iseldur speak of his kin. they were vagabonds, then, wolves without a home. it resonated with him, in ways he hadn't quite expected. he was tempted to ask what happened, but perhaps that was a wound too fresh. 

he knew his was, anyway. 

he sat up a little straighter, his expression hardening just the slightest. or was it pain? "mine is no more, also. i left. there was no place for me there." he paused. that was all he could bare sharing at the moment. "so, much like you and your little friend, i wander. my name is cicero, by the way." he offered a polite smile. the title felt insignificant compared to the knight.

no worries! <3

cicero. good to meet. a deep nod, a slight twitch of his brow ; respectful in his mannerisms, the embodiment of a firm handshake and a slap on the back. iseldur was not one to linger on a single topic for too long, especially if the person speaking did not seem to exhibit any sort of enjoyment as they spoke. though perhaps cicero was just a solemn speaker. the man draped in gold was usure, ultimately deciding not to prod.

a curious expression flickered within emerald eyes. you seek affiliation? he queried, then. half wondering if cicero would like to accompany both the squire and the knight, and half wondering if he had met any pack-wolves that he thought good enough to stay with. and so, he would voice these wonders. you, ah, meet good pack...s? though he would remain quiet on the former idea for the time being. they had only just met.

@Iseldur

"the pleasure is all mine. it's not often i run into friendly wanderers." he hummed pleasantly. many were defensive, and rightfully so. the world is cruel, and many wolves can be crueler. not the man cloaked in gold, though. he seems to be a calm spirit. 

seeking affiliation...it was what all loners such as themselves were seeking, wasn't it? though the idea filled cicero with dread. he'd left his home with the ghost of his failure and grief trailing behind. the mere thought of starting over made his chest seize tight with uncertainty. 

"mm, i haven't been seeking such. i ran into the leader of a...norse pack, i believe. forneskja, they call themselves. he took interest in my cleric skills." he paused, thoughtfully. "i do not know what will become of it."

you meet many hostile? he chuckled, eyebrows moving slightly upwards.

forneskja, he would keep the name in mind, should he stumble upon it. perhaps it would be worth it to seek these people out, as a home, albeit probably temporary, could be safe for him and his son. though, if cicero was unsure of it, iseldur would not be too certain, either. curious expression, then, thoughtful, as he spoke: what you think?

of, eh, forneskja. you cleric, do they be nice to clerics? words were gruff, thick in the sound of his mother tongue. broken common was not rare upon these parts, he did not think, although it was somewhat embarrassing when he compared it to the easy english of cicero. his accent did not go unnoticed by the knight. rather, he envied the familiarity with common in which he spoke with. trustworthy, you think?

a hum, then. honest with his intentions. me and squire go there, maybe. if you be going there. safe for winter to ... band? together, was that the right word? come as one. hunt. feed all. good for growing boy... another chuckle, now, as he spoke of his son. he would not say it out loud, but he truly did see cathal as one of his own.

his brood. any whelp there? forneskja?

@Iseldur

"many, i must admit. not all are...ah, welcoming of others." he responded with a sigh. good company was difficult to come by, especially in lands as wild as this. 

what did he think? forneskja was unlike his home, much more...primitive. not necessarily uncultured, as they had their ways, but different than what he was accustomed too. the question was met with a bout of thoughtful silence, before cicero answered. "different, i suppose. they speak a language i do not understand yet, worship gods i know nothing of. i am yet an outsider."

though for how much longer, was the question. "change is hard." he admitted ruefully. change from way he'd once known, had once grieved. letting go of it felt as if he was losing a part of himself. but perhaps it's what he needed. "but i must welcome it. they have been very accommodating." 

the knight pondered if he and his squire should join them, for the time being. refuge, resources—cicero selfishly finds himself thrilled at the thought of having someone within forneskja that he's acquainted with. so, he grins. "they would welcome you and cathal. they'd be foolish, to refuse a capable knight. i could take you to them?" 

he was hopeful, curious. even if the pair decided to part ways with the pack come spring, at least they'd have full bellies and strong bones to do so, by the time the land unthawed.