Whitewater Gorge wyrd bið ful āræd

@Cicero mayhaps?

the land rolls quiet beneath his paws; forest gives way to open brush and frost-bitten fields. the morning sky looking down upon the warrior as he goes. muscles sore from the last kill, ribs stiff from sleep against frozen earth.
@Qupirruarjuit sleeps where he left her. he wished to walk, now. he had not spoken of leaving. only rose, checked the wind, and walked. not far, not gone, just away. space makes the bond stronger or kills it outright.
his breath steams thick in the cold. birds scatter in the distance. he tastes blood in his mouth again, maybe from the open gash upon his snout from wolf's teeth, maybe from the cracked tooth he’d ignored too long.
þis is nāht! he says to the trees, feigning ignorance. scoffing then, when the wind rustles the branches and the fur upon his neck.
the gods and their foolish games they enjoyed to play.

in the early morning mists, the man cloaked in dusk made his rounds. crawled from his newfound den, tucked away beneath a rocky, mossy outcrop. prowling through the timber on the hunt for herbs. 

he slid amongst the foreground with what was nearly perfect grace—his leg was far better than when he arrived to forneskja, and thanks to white sylph, he was able to move around without much pain. still slower than most, but it was good enough. 

on his path came a scent of ichor, followed by a bellow of a voice he was not familiar with. ever the curious, he changed his stride, slinking through the tree's old trunks until he found a mountain of a man. proud in stature, speaking a language that sounded similar to sólhárrs.

a stranger to this lands, and yet cicero would not be the one to chase him away. he was inclined now, with his new title, to help. to heal. emerging from the shadows, he slid forward, chin tilted as eyes of silver met the behemoth's. 

"you speak to the trees?" he commented, his tone even and dull, but there was a tinge of amusement tucked away. "odd, injured man. let me help you."

the scent finds him first. moss, rot, something earthy—then man.
raedwulf turns slow, head low, ears forward. brown eyes narrow beneath the crusted wound splitting his snout. an infection had begun to take root, and the wound stung with each breath.
clearly unable to understand the man, raedwulf is left only to the power of observation. a once over, noting his… not-so-impressive stature. he smelt faintly of herbs, and coupled with the way he gawked upon his face…
he noted: weak frame, thick coat, but eyes sharp as flint. not a threat. not prey, either. the man moves suddenly to invade the smaller man’s space and chuffs lowly to his ear, offering his face for inspection.
settling upon haunches like an obedient patient.

the brute has so sense of personal space—something that irks the hjartvörður. but he does not voice a complaint; he takes advantage. worn, steady hands cupping the man's face, forcing his head to turn in whichever direction needed. not unkind, but not gentle. keen eyes narrowing, followed by a thoughtful hum. 

"infection," he murmured to himself. plain in the raise of angry, sore skin, the way pus modules were beginning to form on the gash. the early stages; an easy fix to prevent it from worsening. the wise teachings of white sylph echo in his mind. guiding him. 

hands drop. the man sits obediently; good. cicero was a patient man by all means, but he would not fight with a fussy wolf. "stay." he commanded, before he was slinking off again. 

he returned after a while with a bundle of herbs between teeth. gentle, as not to ruin their use. gentian root for the infection, stalks of goldenrod. setting them at his feet so he could crush the root into a usable poultice. 

the man either could not understand him or was mute. either way, that did not stop cicero from explaining himself, his methods. a habit, he supposes. 

"root to stave off infection." the poultice ready, he scooped it up to lather the man's wound. careful, steady hands work with efficiency that comes naturally. and when the wound was lathered, he stared expectantly up at the man, face unreadable. "you eat." 

nudging the root toward the man's maw.

he does not flinch when the hands grab him—though his body tenses, breath sharp through his nose. not from fear. from instinct. but he lets it happen; lets the smaller man move his head, command his body for this short time.
for moments, eyes flutter closed to silently endure this pampering. letting the seconds pass by, but then comes impatience and brown eyes reopen to settle upon the man's face.
his eyes track cicero’s every move, heavy-lidded but alert. it is as if raedwulf is looking heavily upon him now, seeking to observe the smallest and most minute of details. wanting to look into his soul and see the boy-shaped man for what he was.
wyrm in þǣm flǣsce, raedwulf remarks, gesturing then with large, pale paw to the wound that had begun to fester upon his face. it would certainly leave a permanent mark. one of his people's metaphors for infection of the flesh.
when the root is nudged toward him, he eyes it with mild suspicion—then, after a beat, takes it. the man bites down, chews slowly, making a disgusted face and squinting eyes as the bitterness coats his tongue and throat. muttering his complaints with gravel-deep voice. looking over at the smaller man from where he had hunched over, huffing from his thick nostrils. þū hǣlst. iċ þancie þē.
pushing his paw against his own chest, then gesturing outwards from where his heart nestled. raedwulf, he introduces, guthrices sunu.

the deep timbre of the man's voice still speaks in a language foreign. perhaps a problem, but the brute was being a pleasant patient. obedient, unable to pester or whine. it made the job all the easier, all the more enjoyable. 

the corner of cicero's lips twitched, nearly pulling into an amused smile, as norsemen's face twisted with disgust. he would have warned the man, if there wasn't the language barrier. but—and cicero lets his eyes wander—the man is strong enough and has been through enough to not fuss over a bitter taste. 

cicero isn't able to make out the words, but there's a look on the brute's face; one that spoke of gratitude. he brushed it off—it was his duty. he did not heal for praise. "do not thank me yet," he spoke, accent thick. "not until it is healed." 

it meant that cicero would find his mountain of a patient again, after they depart. for the sake of checking on his work and to see if the root had done its job.

"raedwulf." he tests the name on his tongue. it is strong and heavy. he mimics the man's movement, and introduces himself. "cicero. i do not speak your tongue...norse?" perhaps solharr would be able to understand...

cicero does not move away yet, and instead returns his focus to the golden rod at his feet. making quick work to turn it into a poultice. he grabs the man's rugged face again, pulling him closer, and slathers the salve on the wound. 

"it will help heal faster, raedwulf."

the man leers at him, gaze unreadable but heavy. eyes of silver flicker to meet deep brown. an acknowledgment, a silent kinship. and then he was pulling away, standing to his meager height. "forneskja could use a man like you."

when hands return to his face, he stays still. breath hisses between his teeth as the salve burns, but he does not move. pain is a known thing. this, at least, does not try to kill him.
nē norðmann. iċ eom seaxe. he says, then looking to the man for any sort of recognition. trying to couple it with the shake of his head, but brows furrow in frustration when he comes to realize any attempt of verbal communication seems to be mute. they have only successfully shared names.
he catches one word in the ramble—forneskja. no meaning, but tone marks it as a place, maybe a people. and then the man says raedwulf again, speaks of him like he’s being offered a place.
his brow furrows. there is a long a beat of thought. then—quietly:
iċ gā. a decision made in a split second. the kind of decision made out of fear for connections, for becoming close to a body of people again. in fear of losing people again. so raedwulf rises then, suddenly, like a ship breaking lose of heavy storm waters and breaching.
looking back once to say: þū eart gōd wer. with a heavy dip of his head.