Chimera Fields hey you, big star

AW but perhaps forneskja joining @Solharr ? <3

shadow stood against the greenery of the land. shades of twilight upon the verdant green grasses that marked the western end of the meadow. an open field that held many prey scents. small game. rökkur had his nose to the ground, drinking in the smells with tightly screwed eyes. focus. he told himself. drink.

but this was not his mountain. not his tunglspíra. there were no goats, no sheep, no rams. perhaps a bird flittering around the meadow, but they were not thick, nor tender in the way that the mountain flocks had been. the man stood, his head now raised, a chord of regret striking deep within his chest. a feeling he resented.

and then he blinked. the regret had vanished just as quickly as it had come. rökkur reminded himself, then, that he had left for a reason. to escape war. bloodshed. to renew himself. and so he would continue walking, following, now, the scent of a rabbit.

hunger grew within his belly. pawing along in strides. moving.

alive.

sólhárr moved silently through the grasses, his frame slipping between shadows as he caught sight of the large male ahead. the man was strong, his body carved with muscle and focus. even from this distance, he could sense the energy, the hunger simmering beneath the stranger’s calm exterior. sólhárr’s gaze sharpened as he took in the sight, noting the way the male’s nose was close to the ground, tracking something small. prey.

he padded closer, his steps deliberate, keeping his own scent downwind, masked by the earthy scents of the meadow. as he drew within range, sólhárr let out a low rumble—a sound that bridged greeting with warning, cautious yet curious.

you wandered far, he murmured, his tone low, neutral, and edged with interest. not many pass through these fields alone. he watched the stranger closely, assessing whether this was a wolf of purpose or one of wandering spirit.

he had not been aware of the stranger's approach until his voice was already murmuring, speaking to him. scarlet met blue, oceanic, like the seas that roared north of the moon spire. the way his tongue sculpted common-speak was familiar to nordic ears, and rökkur rumbled a reply, voice similarly low as he spoke.

i know your sound, he said. and then he blinked, a knowing gaze. a nod of his head that was accompanied by a sense of brothership, though detached in a way that made him seem not-all-there. like his gaze was focused on something very, very far. only a dot on the horizon. you speak our tongue. do you not?

the strangers words would go otherwise unnoticed, but his scent would not. others stuck to his pelt like thorns. clinging to him. marking a loyalty, he assumed. but was this man a king, or a mercenary? a poet, or a bard? rökkur watched him carefully. perceiving the man coated in fire and ice. painted like the sun that rose from the back of the mountain range, glittering over the tundra.

a king, he thought. a stjóri.

sólhárr took in the stranger’s knowing gaze, the depth behind it like a flickering flame just beyond reach. he noted the way the man’s eyes seemed to drift, both seeing and not-seeing, like someone watching distant memories unfold. it reminded him of the old tales, of seers who straddled the line between past and present.

aye, he rumbled in reply, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. i know our tongue. there was a familiarity in the stranger's voice, a thread of kinship woven from lands far and harsh, and sólhárr could almost feel the pull of those northern roots binding them, thin as spider’s silk, yet unbreakable.

i am sólhárr, he said, inclining his head in a subtle gesture of respect, though his gaze remained sharp, studying the male  with quiet curiosity. he noted the careful weight of the other’s stare, the way he seemed to sift through layers of meaning in silence. i am hárkonungr of forneskja, he added, a soft but certain declaration, letting the title rest between them.

and you? he asked, eyes glinting with intrigue, his stance relaxed but unwavering. from where do you come, brother, that the land has cast you my way?

confirmation. he seemed to relax. though something about the words stung his skin, like falling through clouds. one would think that his mother tongue would bring him comfort. ruby eyes focused, now, on the man in front of him. listening. no longer watching the distance. apparently it was the present that mattered to him now.

hárkonungr of forneskja, the title echoed within his mind, and though the king was younger than him, rökkur would dip his head, an action made with respect. sólhárr asked about the shadow, then, and he swallowed a lump that threatened to form within his throat. the thought of his past prickled within the ducts of his eyes. but he hardened himself, frozen like glaciers, tall like mountains.

i am rökkur. i hail from tunglbörn. the moonchildren. borne atop the tallest spire, their life both a gift to and a blessing from the moon. i held no fancy title. i was merely a warrior. son of the mercenary and his bride. nephew to their chief, though it was them who betrayed his youth. the urge to sigh, though the breath was held.

i have come here to escape my past. a sentence that seemed to simmer within his mind, portrayed by the glint of sorrow that shone within his gaze. he missed his mother. but you, brother. why do you find yourself here? upon these lands, this meadow? rökkur wondered if there was a greater meaning, a greater purpose, of this interaction.

sólhárr watched as rökkur's expression shifted, the distant look melting away, replaced by something grounded, rooted in the present. he caught the glint of sorrow behind those ruby eyes and felt a quiet respect rise within him as rökkur spoke of tunglbörn, of leaving behind a past. there was a weight to the man's words, an ache held close, like a scar not fully healed.

when rökkur returned the question, sólhárr’s gaze softened, though his expression remained composed. he let the silence hang for a breath, a respect for what had been shared, before he answered, his voice low and steady.

this place is mine to keep, he murmured simply, glancing around at the expanse of land, at the trees that held the borders of forneskja. my purpose lies here—building something lasting, something stronger than what any of us might escape.

there was no need for embellishment; the meaning was woven into each quiet word, into the look he gave rökkur. forneskja was meant to be a home for those who sought renewal, a place for warriors like them, shadows bound to their pasts but determined to create something greater.

with a faint nod, sólhárr regarded rökkur again, sensing the understanding that needed no further words. you’re welcome here, if that purpose calls to you.

the honour that sólhárr regarded rökkur's words with would not go unnoticed; a respect that he had not been given the luxury of within tunglbörn. a smile tugged at his lips, then. and sólhárr's own expression would change, too, only a few seconds before he begun to speak. the shadow listened with clear intent.

pack scent rolled towards them through the air, only a small ways south-east. the dense thicket of pines seemed to be what the man referred to, and rökkur nodded his head. he had picked it up from his pelt almost immediately, and his words were hardly disguised: he was forming a group, a clan, something lasting, he had said.

he breathed, then. and the king would extend an invitation. the shadow wanted to take it in pride, but something tore at him, as if there was a thin, unbreakable thread that tried and tried to tug him back to the spire. but as he felt the grasses underfoot, the coldness of the air and the blazing stare in front of the man in front of him, he felt seen within this moment. seen in a way that he had yet to experience back in his homeland.

rökkur blinked. i'd like to join you, he spoke, a sense of finality, of confidence, trust lacing his words. if you'll have me. his tail flicked, then. thinking: what am i to expect of forneskja? will he have to become a warrior once more?

unrelenting, unthinking?

he hoped not.

sólhárr watched rökkur with a steady gaze, sensing the gravity of the moment—the shadow of his past tugging at him, a final struggle before he broke free. when rökkur spoke, his words held a weight that sólhárr recognized; a man making peace with his path forward. there was strength in it, a sense of resolve that sólhárr respected deeply.

then you are forneskja, sólhárr said simply, stepping forward to brush his shoulder firmly against rökkur’s flank, a silent acceptance, a mark that bound him to this land and its people. as their pelts mingled, sólhárr felt a satisfaction settle within him, the bond of brotherhood forming with a man whose story mirrored his own more than either would say.

forneskja is many things, he began, drawing back to meet rökkur’s gaze. we need hunters, guardians, warriors, gardeners, lorekeepers. whatever path you choose here, it is yours to walk. we are building something lasting, and each has their part in that.

he paused, giving rökkur a moment to let the words settle, to feel the freedom of choosing without the weight of expectation. you need not be only a warrior, unless that is what calls to you. sólhárr’s tone softened, a note of understanding weaving through his words. here, you will be seen for the strength you bring, and honored for the path you walk.

he gestured toward the dense thicket of pines that shielded their land from the world beyond. come, he said, a rare warmth in his voice. i’ll show you the heart of forneskja. your place in it awaits. 

fade in your next;)?

yessir !! love him

the mingling pelts of brothers. a kinship formed. i am forneskja, he murmured, nodding his head, as if confirming this new loyalty to himself rather than to the man who would now lead him. spoken gently, with care.

i wish to find my place in time, if you will allow. rökkur needed to find himself — to find out who he was outside of a fighter, a set of claws and jaws full of teeth. he was a man who knew nothing about himself. to find his purpose, he would need to grow.

and his words spoke to the shadows' heart, as if sólhárr could sense the river that winded like a snake within his past, that threatened to bead within his eyes should he think of it too long. but he would say nothing, only offering a nod.

when he gestured towards the pines, rökkur would slowly raise a single paw, preparing for movement. lead the way, hárkonungr. he would say. and when he would inevitably start moving, the man would follow behind him; his own personal shadow.