Dawnlark Plains I can't hear it now

the air in the valley was quiet.
not the hush of peace, no—faust knew better than that. this stillness was one of waiting, of breath held behind every branch and thicket, of an earth that had not yet decided whether it would bloom or bleed.
he stood near the edge where frost still lingered in patches, the dark stone of his limbs mottled with old scars and recent dust. his eyes—green as the deep pine and just as cold—swept across the sprawl of the land below, where fog clung low and the early light turned every dew-laced blade of grass into a gleaming spear.
his nostrils flared. elk, faintly to the east. the passing musk of fox. the whisper of another wolf, far off and cautious.

---

ᚦ — dawn's first light fled when he had engaged in trivial war with the woman of ice. now, he wore blooded wound upon the scruff of his neck where her teeth had laid claim to him.
a fierce shieldmaiden. he carried the memory of her with him, now into the plains he walked once more. pelt of night and spilled blood shifting with the rummage of wind, taking his scent further inland. it was her he looked for now, and found a scent that carried the same corvid grit as hers.
but it is not her he finds; but a man of similar great stature, coated in a pelt of charcoal, illuminated with neck plumage of gold. draugr stands several feet away now; squaring shoulders, chuffing deeply with grizzled northern voice to the man of the taiga.
northern blood across from northern blood. sandstone eyes probing now to gauge his resolve. silently demanding to know who he was, and why he smelled so faintly of the winter maiden draugr so manfully desired. was she wed already? a flash of envy in his gaze then, unseen from so far away.
he does not know yet that it is a familial scent and not the bond of lovers.

faust did not bristle.
but neither did he yield.
the mountain air hung heavy between them, laced with the metallic tang of old blood and the whisper of her scent—frostbitten, ocean-wind sharp. familiar. but not his. not his. and so the dark sovereign of darukaal stood still, the ruff of his neck lifting with quiet, inborn pride. not to threaten. to know.
his breath curled from his nose in measured silence.
eyes the color of iced stone swept the other—up, down, across—missing nothing. the scars. the stance. the curious glint of possessiveness in that distant gaze. not rage, not yet. but a question. a claim.
the northern wolf said nothing, but in his stillness was a language older than words. he watched as the stranger squared himself, and he answered only by shifting—barely—just enough to mark the ground beneath his paw. this land was his. this place, his kingdom. she was not, but she had passed through here, and that was close enough.
his tail hung low but assured, the air behind him thick with the scent of fire, hide, and the glacier's edge. he did not posture.
he simply was.
and his gaze did not waver. not once. not until the other would blink first.

---

ᚦ — draugr did not blink.
he stood as if carved, sandstone eyes locked on the pale-glacier gaze of the king who did not roar. and that was how draugr knew.
this was no idle male, no southern brute.
a smile, then. it is not born of inherent friendliness, but it is not meant to threaten, neither. it is simply that: a smile, born of crooked, yellowed teeth and a gaze that has seen bloodshed and hearth both.
his voice comes, soaked in northern ice and old battle-smoke:
sæll, kappi. a measuring eye that drops from first head to toe, then back up, shoulders swinging in wide berth as he comes to step closer, tail aloft at neutral banner; not weak but not dominant. there would be no need for that here—not on behalf of draugr, that is. he cannot speak for the other.
hefurðu séð fölu norræn kona? þú berð ilm hennar. an unspoken way to say: do not lie to me, battleborn.

faust did not move, nor blink in haste. he stood as one forged by the glacier itself—silent, frigid, ancient beneath the skin. the man before him was of the same ilk; northern-born, battle-tempered. not a southerner’s softness, no—this one had known frostbite and iron.
his ear flicked at the old tongue, the weight of it not lost on him.
he raised a single brow, gaze sharpening just a fraction.
woman?
a grunt followed, low in the chest. his head turned, slow, as if scenting her in memory alone. none came.
there are scarce women upon the glacier.
jora. svalla. neither fit the scent upon him. neither fit the need in his voice.
he had not lied. but he would help the man hunt.

---

ᚦ — a woman. not just any.
"lunarre."
a breathy chuckle pulled then from the northman as he begins to walk ample towards the side of the other, letting his axe slide into leather sheathe at his hip. með silfursýn og loga í hjarta.
ég mun taka hana sem konu mína. manful grunt made as he solidifies this decision, letting his tail fall thick amongst his hocks. hún lyktar af ísblómum og krákum. beginning a practiced hunt with the man, now scenting elk as it drifts from the east wind current.
en ég veit ekki hvar hún býr nú. only that it is somewhere within this taiga he wanders, that he had found and lost her in.

faust's jaw tightened—just barely—but enough to betray the flicker that passed through him.
lunarre.
his father’s name for the woman of winterhelm. true wife. silver-eyed queen. the only one vahaelarr had ever spoken of with something like reverence. not the mother of faust, not… family, in the way that mattered to bloodline and crown. and she lived?
he did not speak at first. only glanced sidelong at the man, measuring. studying. and then, low:
not here.
he bent to sniff the wind, the faintest twitch in his shoulder betraying thought.
try the northmost mountain.
a pause.
he loves to hide his women there.
he gave no hint that he knew her. no revelation of the cold shock that ran like riverwater through his bones. only the stillness of a bear before snow.

---

ᚦ — draugr does not care enough to notice the tension that ripples in the jaw and muscles of the northman at his side. eyes turned indefinitely to the direction of the distant elk herd, tasting their scent upon a pallid tongue; then letting eyes drift to the northmost mountain which he spoke of.
a tall peak in the distance, past great evergreens. thoughtful hum in his throat as he digests this information; along with the noted he, turning questioning look then to the man.
mm. það er ekkert þess virði að eiga brúður ef hún vinnur hana ekki í blóðsúthellingum. já? nostrils flaring, thinking, for what the man has said implies there is a goblin atop a mountain hoarding away many women. perhaps draugr would go and he would return to steinhaugr with more than one wife.
a greedy grin at the possibility.
segðu mér nafn þitt, kappi. ég er draugr af níunda barrinu. jarl of warhall, til suðaustanvinda.

the wind is low between them, carrying the tang of blood and ice—elk on the breath of the land, the snowfields behind them, and that grin sharp as a blade. faust watches him with steady eyes, granite-hard and narrow, letting the silence between them stretch like taut hide.
warhall. jarl. names held weight, and the man bore his like armor. but faust is unshaken.
he speaks low and sure, the way mountain wolves do.
faust, he offers, with a flick of his tail. kaan of darukaal. we hold the glacier.
no boasts, no flowers in his voice. only stone. only truth.
he lifts his chin then, motioning northward toward the jagged crown rising like a god’s fang from the spine of the world.
you’ll find what you’re looking for, jarl. but blood will greet you first.
his gaze slides back, appraising. not hostile. calculating. he internally hoped that he could steal the women from nova peak. fuck them.
a wolf of war meets a wolf of war.

---

ᚦ — faust af darukaal. the name is repeated with war-torn jaws and the northman can only grin from ear to ear, not from meeting this man, but from the information he has been given. it fills his veins with excitement born from battle-fury, a temptation the man will never resist.
the mountain. the blood. it excites him. a promise of war, and spoils won not by seduction but by a northman's show of strength.
gott. comes his grizzling reply, a gurgle in his throat, which is cleared after—but does little to rid his voice of grit. þannig á það að vera. gathering now his spirit as he makes ready to travel to the foot of the mountain and claim his woman.
eyes drifting back to the crown of stone that pierced the clouds in the distance. he swings his head to faust, meeting his gaze one final time, blunt as warsteel. ef hún er þarna, mun ég finna hana. og ef það er blóð... draugr's strength sways as he barrels forwards many feet with long strides, feeling the bristle of his hackles not with anger but with anticipation. growling lowly in his throat, eyes narrowing once. mm. guðirnir munu fagna.
turning once to offer a dip of jarl's head, one to another, before beginning his leave. við hittumst aftur, kaan! draugr mun vitja í langhúsi þínu, ok veizlum vér. so faust had better prepare the meats and the mead.

faust watched the jarl with eyes like splintered ice—steady, unreadable, but filled with a quiet, rising respect. the way draugr moved, spoke, prowled like war in the flesh. it was not bluster. it was not empty bravado. he was the kind of man faust could welcome in his longhouse and on his field both.
when draugr gave his nod, faust dipped his own broad head in return. a gesture old as the snow beneath their paws. northman to northman. steel to steel.
i will rejoice if blood is shed, came the kaan’s voice low and carved from stone.
come when prize is won. women are drying meats.
a glint of dry humor in his words, but the meaning was true. hospitality would not be denied to one who honored strength.
he watched draugr disappear into the white, wind tugging at the shadow of him. and then faust turned back toward the glacier, a faint curl at the edge of his mouth.
darukaal would be waiting.