Stone Circle ᛊᛁᛞᛁᛏᛁᚱ

---

ᚦ — it is a long walk. under the shroud of night time, sleep has evaded the northman, and he has risen slowly. stretching out strong legs, letting his thick hide of carrion's coarse soak up the midnight's light.
leaving the center of the territory where the stones rise and taking to the borders. first along the borders shared with the neighboring pack, and then slowly, where woodland opens up into stretching prairie.
a manful noise made as he yawns, wide jaws stretching. grunting, pausing momentarily to hike a leg and spray a stream of dark piss upon the shaft of a peeling tree. brushing himself against it before moving on brusquely.
taking the scents of the night on his tongue.

Nightfall is not Leifa's preferred time of travel - Hugin and Munin have flown to roost in the trees leaving the outrider alone with her thoughts. She thinks of her mother, her father and family likely forging their own paths in the wilds as she did, and of the bearwoman Ameline as the valley walls come into view. Perhaps they would meet again.

The idea has Leifa too excited to sleep, and as her pink tongue wets her nose in hopes of catching a familiar scent on the breeze she is almost disappointed when a foreign odour reaches her instead.

"Hey!" she calls, still some distance away and by no means perturbed by the unfamiliar wolf. "You seen Ameline 'round here?" For someone sniffing and marking so close to the Bearclaw's borders, Leifa was sure he had to be an acquaintance of some kind.

---

ᚦ — a shift in wind and scents. the northman swings with wide berth, ready to defend his new claim once more with tooth and claw.
unexpected, he is met by a young beauty. soft of coat color, from what he can see. dark goliath grunts in response, a pallid tongue raking across his face in quiet contemplation. he does not speak for some time, letting sandstone eyes brush her in manful observance.
then—a voice that is growling and grizzled by no circumstance. no. a blunt reply that is strangled in the heavy accents of a dane, mangling what little common he is able to speak.
walking now with long but ample strides to saddle closer to the woman, inhaling thick gusts of her scent. who er ameline? scruffy chin lifting, peering down scarred snout.
a masculine habit to not prosecute a trespasser of new lands for her fairer sex. to instead greet with hospitality—or, peace, by his terms.

It seemed she'd caught his attention. Forest eyes crinkle slightly in greeting as the man draws nearer, and it was then that Leifa felt her breath catch. Midnight and rust, he even bore the same gilded gaze as - "Dad?" 

Her voice was hushed in the space between them, cut short at his accented words. It was not Rusalka; a fool she'd been to think her father may have found new life away from the coast (unbeknownst to her, he had). It begged the question then; who was he?

"Sorry- I uh- I thought you were someone else. Ameline is a..friend of mine," she lifts her gaze to his briefly and feels her paws rooted.

---

ᚦ — a raven flies from its midnight perch overhead and the goliath makes no sort of indication it bothered him. ear twitching at her words, eyes of eerie red moon looking with waspful intent.
he is not certain if he heard her correctly so he makes no move, no breath, no words. remaining shallow in his demeanor, tasting her scent upon his tongue now; hearing her next words, and giving her a soft grunt of acknowledgement in firm response.
no ameline. he reaffirms and then suddenly comes closer, making sweeping gestures with his head for her to leave. to go. he was swift in his conquering of these lands; and judged quickly who would stay and who would go. letting narrowing eyes having judged her and now he acts.
a guttural bark that echoes through the canopy of trees that shadows him direct. go.

Munin flapped her wings above. It seemed she'd roused from slumber at the sound of voices. Leifa's tail flicked once, twice, intrigue piqued as the man confirmed he had not heard of the bearclaw wolves - or at least, their queen.

She shrugged in response, and was about to comment on his un-neighbourly attitude when his advances catch her off guard. "Rude," came her indignant mutter, and though her head lowers on instinct Leifa makes no move to go.

"You wanna set up shop here, kúkalabbi? I'd like to know who you are." Greenfire gaze peeks up at him from below, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at her lips.

---

ᚦ — denial.
eyes that had been emotionless once now flash with a growing... something. the emotion can not yet be pinned, in the calamity that is his mind. a ticking, a calculating. it is surefire.
go. he repeats, teeth clicking as they dance forward with a suddenness and seek to nip at the fur that decorates the plumes of cheek and neck. a man who is not gentle; the northman is rough in any certainty that exists, and this young woman is no exception.
driving her back like a bull with horns pointed, overpowering, muscles rolling with an ease beneath a coat of crimson and dark shade. warhall only fyrir strong. grumbling like a groaning tree that breaks at the shaft and is soon to be felled upon harsh ground.
she asks his name. a snarl blossoms in the gurgled throat of the wight now, but his voice resonates deep in the cage of clenching and gnashing teeth that carry warning. drøugr of the ninth barrow. jarl hér.

His voice is a rough command, and Leifa does not need to be told twice. Finally, her paws stir to action and she skitters back a few paces in time to yield with only a few lost hairs.

"You insult me, viking!" she calls brashly over her shoulder at his slow, hulking mass. As an outrider, she has done her job. But as Leifa, well - growing up among boys she had never been one to back down from a challenge.

Munin's squawks egg her on. "Ég get sýnt þér styrk." Air puffs her cheeks as she spins to face him once more, fur bristling in anticipation.

---

ᚦ — a thrown axe missing its mark. he had continued pushing, head lowered and pointed toward her chest like shield when she stepped backwards. in agahastment, spoke his tongue back—and he thinks the lamb has sprouted horns and become a billy goat.
a monotone face slowly growing to be a northman's crooked, humored smile. slouching back, head rolling soft to the side as he drops gaze over her once.
then a full-bellied laugh, short, and fun-making. ah, já? er það svo? his tongue rolls across yellowed teeth. taking step now to tower over and roll thickened, scarred shoulders and drape her in his shadow. þá sýndu, hvolpur.
viking would be delighted to see.

Life in Sóldalr had honed her skills and, though she'd never quite rose to shield maiden, Leifa welcomed the opportunity to practice against another man of the north. 

His experience was clear in the way he held himself, a bear of muscle and old scars compared to herself; a wellspring of youth, exuberance, and naïvety. But there was no fear in the way she eyed him. No reservation in the jut of her pale chin as he towered above.

To Leifa, he was just another mountain she would climb. 

"Alvöru? Við skulum sjá hvort þú berst eins gróft og þú lítur út." She met his humour with a sharp-toothed grin of her own and ducked purposefully low, teeth outstretched towards his unguarded legs.

---

ᚦ — bold girl.
he had underestimated her—or she overestimated herself in efforts to prove something to him. northman would determine which, and with a haste unlike any other.
his limb jerks back just as hers snaps forward, her teeth grazing the coarse fur of his ankle—but finding no hold. instead, he drops. a twist of his shoulders, a shove of his weight, and he lunges downward in a half-turn, aiming to shoulder-check her sideways while she’s still low, off-center.
bellowing now with great laughter that echoes off night time canopies of trees that decorate his woodland. growling lowly. já gott. testing, teasing, taunting. wishing to draw out the true northerner ferocity in the strange girl who had wandered into the bear's den.
eyes flashing with battle-light.

She'd been expecting retaliation, but he is quick despite his size. Forest eyes glance sidewards to see him rear and crash downwards, widening as she realises there is not enough time to dodge. And so she lets him.

Strong legs press against hard ground as she surges upwards to meet the force of his blow, ears pinned and teeth gritted with the strain of it. "Haltu kjafti, aufúsi!" the outrider growls as his laughter becomes a war-horn. 

But still she cannot shake the image of Rusalka in her mind's eye. A daughter's urge to prove her wanderlust had all been worth it.

With newfound vigour, Leifa's jaws snap back towards his body, aiming to grasp what she can reach of his shoulder.

---

ᚦ — her voice spits venom, and his grin only widens.
a snarl now stretches over his crooked teeth, one of blood-heating thrill. the girl bites back and northman meets it furiously, gladly. her jaws lash out, catching the thick hide of his shoulder—a sharp tug, a pinch of fang that breaks the skin.
he grunts. jerks his head back to avoid a follow-through, the chain of his spine coiling like a whip, thick forelimbs digging into the dirt. he braces—pressing forward, letting his weight bear down.  a bellow—wordless. a war-cry.
komdu aftur! ég mun finna reiði þína! an egging on, and an invitation to bleed. she will show him her great vigor and he will feel it with pulsating war heart. it is the great joy of any jarl to feel the fury of his people.

Her teeth meet flesh and in its wake: blood. Arcing, red droplets spray and coat her tongue thickly, a sensation she has come to know and crave. It remains as he recoils and rears again - but Leifa is ready this time.

Winding away from him in one smooth movement, she launches as his challenge splits the midnight air and aims for the tongue that speaks it. Their clash is loud, rousing Hugin from his nap though his squawks fall on deaf ears as blood roars through her veins like burning fire. "Þú ert jafn þungur og þú ert heimskur." An opposing taunt, a grunt, for he had winded her again. But she had yet to see his true flame; a fight that called him Jarl of Warhall.


And she yearned for it.

---

ᚦ — he laughs—deep, coarse, full of bloodlust.
her teeth had found him. her fire had followed. and now she came again, drawn by his roar, by his call to war. her fangs flash for his tongue—bold, mad, glorious!
his body catches her again, broad chest bracing as he digs into the earth to meet her—to take her with full force, to wrestle her now; to the ground, to slam viciously and knock the breath from her lungs. his breath snarls from his throat, ragged, thrilled. hooting now a war thrill bellow, call to arms; hearing how it rings through his woodland and calls the gods down.
his blood runs hot, his eyes wild. jaws parting to find the fur and hide of her neck, her scruff, her throat; anywhere he might grab and cut air from her. to not spill her blood but to steal the very life from her—unless she begs for mercy! (or cries uncle.)