Silvertip Mountain Through the big top tent up high

looking for loners to recruit to forneskja! AW ;)

dawn’s first light crept over the horizon, casting a soft glow across forneskja. sólhárr rose quietly from his nest, careful not to disturb his sleeping elska. he took a lingering moment, eyes warm as he watched the gentle rise and fall of her breath. a faint smile played at his lips, a quiet promise to return by her side when his work was done. with one last look, he turned and slipped into the morning.

the air was sharp and cool as sólhárr padded through the dense forest, his steps purposeful yet silent. his path led him to the outer edges, where the forest met the rocky base of the mountain, a place that marked the boundary of their home. he welcomed the solitude here, the stillness of the early hours, the crisp scent of pine mingling with the distant, earthy musk of mountain stone.

each stride was measured, his eyes scanning the treeline and the open slopes beyond, alert for any movement. it was rut season, so the trails were thick with the fresh signs of deer, but sólhárr’s focus was set beyond prey. he was looking for fresh faces, wanderers who might seek a place to settle—or challengers testing the strength of forneskja’s borders.

the soft crunch of fallen leaves and the distant call of birds were his only companions as he moved steadily along the boundary, his senses tuned to every subtle shift in the landscape. sólhárr’s posture remained strong, a quiet invitation for any who might approach. let them see him here, the guardian of this land, steady as the mountain itself.

He'd followed the coast again, lingering near the borders of first one sea-faring pack, then another. There were familiar scents at either one, and he recognized the irony in it when he bypassed them both. The first because he was not interested in meeting children who were stranger to him, and the second because he resented the father that'd become a stranger to him.

The bounty hunter roved inland, tracing the path of more of those sea-faring wolves. Kin to him? They all were, in a way, but he had no interest in a family reunion this day. He wanted what he almost always wanted — work.

As he crested the hill, he spotted the other male. A man who had put himself on display — who stood as if they had agreed to meet here before, and he was only patiently waiting for the bounty hunter to make their appointment. Catamaran regarded him for a careful moment, his ears swiveling uncertainly to test their surroundings. Were they truly alone? Was he interrupting something?

Regardless: this looked like a man of some substance. Perhaps he had connections in this land. Perhaps he had problems of his own that needed solving. There was always trouble somewhere if one knew where to look, and Catamaran was adept at finding it.

"Peace be," he called out, his voice rough from disuse and stiff in an effort to combat his Blackmouth accent — he'd smoothed it out over the years into something that better suited the common tongue, though not without some effort. He still tended toward nonverbal communication when possible, but he was bound and determined to approach this man. "Live around here?"

the air was thick with the unmistakable tang of a wanderer accustomed to blood and grit. he followed the trail with purpose, cresting a hill to spot the other male—a wiry figure, hard-edged, with a squint that spoke to a life lived in the darker corners of the world. the flash of coral beneath his heavy brow marked him distinctly, and sólhárr’s own posture stiffened as he took in the sight.

as the stranger approached, sólhárr inclined his head, meeting his formal greeting with a steady, unyielding look. this was not a wolf seeking family, nor a wayward traveler; the gleam in his eye spoke of a man used to following trails, hunting his own kind. still, sólhárr respected the directness, the lack of pretense. if nothing else, it was the sort of attitude he could work with.

forneskja is nearby, my land. hough his voice was gruff, edged with the authority he wore like a mantle he let the words hang, a quiet declaration as much as it was an answer. you’ve wandered close.

he took a step forward, his gaze appraising, noting the stranger’s confident stance. and you? don’t look like you’re here for kin or hearth. his tone softened, almost intrigued. seeking work, or just trouble?

The man stood tall; taller than most. Catamaran was cautious in his approach, answering the stranger's posturing with casually deferential body language of his own. As he drew nearer, smaller details began to emerge. The blue blaze of his eyes, the littering of scars across his body. Some on his ankle seemed to match the ones that Catamaran bore on his own — but this was of little importance to him. They all carried scars.

Despite this deference, the bounty hunter felt no compunction against disregarding the gentle warning. He did not smell any borders so strongly that he felt he ought to move further away. The man only meant to put him in his place; Catamaran was past resenting such things, accustomed to being treated with wariness and suspicion by other men.

He made no real effort to put the other man at ease. Such things had gone to waste in the past, and he preferred to let his actions speak for themselves.

"One man's trouble is another's work," the bounty hunter replied, though without any of the charm that might've made it a clever riposte. The flatness of his voice worked against him. "Are these troubled lands?" he asked, though there was nothing he sensed in the stranger that suggested he had many worries at all.

Still. Catamaran had nothing more pressing to see to.

sólhárr’s gaze remained steady, appraising the man before him with the quiet intensity of someone who understood both strength and caution. the man's flat tone and lack of charm didn’t deter him; if anything, sólhárr found it refreshing, a reminder that not all who crossed these lands came with flowery words or unnecessary pleasantries. he inclined his head, acknowledging the man’s words without offering immediate judgment.

troubled or not, sólhárr replied, his voice carrying a rough edge, that depends on the eyes looking. he let the words hang, giving the stranger a moment to weigh them. he could see the scars, the hardened look that spoke of a life on the edge, and sólhárr knew well the kind of man who wore such marks. they did not waste time with meaningless words, nor did they often come with simple intentions.

forneskja is a land that knows strength, he continued, his tone more direct, and it welcomes those who bring it. he paused, letting a faint smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. but it doesn’t suffer trouble lightly.

he took a step closer, his blue amber gaze piercing as he regarded the man. so, if you’re here for work, dregnr, then speak of it plainly.

There was no outward show of his impatience aside from a flick of his ear; otherwise, the bounty hunter remained entirely placid. Still — My eyes are looking, he wanted to say, Obviously.

He did resent flowery language and verbal sparring. Not because he saw no merit in it, but because he had no talent for it himself. Correspondingly, his irritation turned inward and soon dissipated, just as quickly as it had come.

Catamaran's ear flicked again, this time in quiet contemplation the man spoke words of his grandmother's tongue. It was one of the languages he was more fluent in, of the few that he spoke with any competency. Yet, he had not met any aside from his own family who favored this tongue. Moorhen Cairn taught it to her daughters, and her daughters taught it to their own children; to him. But it was a dead language, other than that. This was what he'd assumed, anyway.

"If there's work, I'll work," he said after a moment of thought. "I'm a bounty hunter by trade. But," he made a clucking sound, "times are tough. I'll work. I just aim to be paid for it."

hárkonungr's eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger but in quiet calculation, as he considered the bounty hunter’s words. the man’s straightforward nature suited him; there was no excess of charm or needless verbal play, only the blunt truth of a man who did his job and expected his due. sólhárr respected that.

and your price? he asked, his voice low and steady, without any hint of impatience. for forneskja has need of strength, of those who understand work and can follow through.

he stepped closer, his blue amber gaze fixed on the man, appraising the bounty hunter’s readiness. whatever it is you seek, name it, he said, his tone as firm as the ground they stood on. if it’s fair, and you’ll give what’s asked in return, we’ll find an agreement.

sólhárr watched him in silence then, awaiting the man’s terms, curious what value he placed on his skill and loyalty.

The bounty hunter's chin lifted a fraction. Not in challenge, exactly, but in subtle intensity as the matter of payment was pressed. Frankly, he preferred suspicion and wariness to those more versed in supply and demand. Specifically, he remembered an aging man with the air of an oilslick about him saying, Name your price, and then the look in that young girl's eyes when he finally found her.

Bounty hunting could be messy business, no matter if it was a man hunt or a rescue mission.

"Peace and safety for the winter," he said at last. "A fair share of my own kills or group hunts. Healing, if I'm called to fight. I can pull my own weight and give all the rest a little slack. Defend the territory. Any more than that's gonna be somethin' extra."

He did not yet speak of the agency he expected come spring season. He wasn't sure he would be staying that long. He wasn't sure he wanted to know just exactly what sort of man this was, yet.

sólhárr watched the man with a steady gaze, assessing him as he laid out his terms. he could see the weight of experience in the bounty hunter’s eyes—the kind that hinted at messier business than any simple hire. but his terms were fair, and sólhárr appreciated the lack of pretension; this man seemed content to offer his skills without pretense or needless embellishment.

sólhárr gave a firm nod. sounds reasonable. forneskja offers shelter to those who pull their weight.

he paused, then inclined his head in a gesture of trust. sólhárr, hárkonungr of forneskja, he introduced himself, his tone respectful but direct. and you, bounty hunter?

he waited, watching the man’s reaction, curious if there was more lurking behind his calm, guarded demeanor. whatever history this bounty hunter carried, sólhárr was prepared to respect it—so long as he respected forneskja in return.

Catamaran found his terms eminently reasonable as well, and had not truly expected the man to see otherwise. Yet, he was wary of changing opinions and moving goalposts as the cold settled in. It was too much in his line of work to expect fair treatment — but, regardless, the bounty hunter would collect what was owed to him.

"Well met," he replied, lifting a paw and pressing it briefly over his heart in his own show of vulnerability. He was as willing to show respect as Sólhárr. "Catamaran, of Blackmouth by the Sea. My grandmother walked these shores."

He did not expect Sólhárr to recognize the name of Blackmouth, nor did he think it terribly relevant that Moorhen had lived in these lands almost a lifetime ago. He only meant to reveal a little of himself in a show of good faith — as much as he preferred suspicion, he did not expect a man to live beside it all winter long.

"Tell me of Forneskja," he requested, testing out what he hoped would be another shared tongue. The dialects they spoke were subtly different, but there was enough commonality that they ought to be able to make sense of each other. At the same time, the bounty hunter made a show of making ready to follow the man, or else be directed to the claim. He had no possessions, but that did not negate his desire to settle in and luxuriate in the comfort of semi-permanence and safety in numbers.

sólhárr’s brows lifted slightly as he listened to catamaran speak his native tongue, the familiar cadence stirring something deep within him. it was rare to encounter another wolf here who knew his language, let alone someone with such a solid, practical demeanor as this bounty hunter. there was a shared history in their words, a sense of kinship that sólhárr hadn’t expected.

well met, catamaran, he replied, nodding with a faint smile, his tone carrying an unusual warmth. your grandmother’s spirit walks familiar paths, then. it’s good to know our tongues aren’t entirely lost here.

sólhárr gestured for catamaran to follow as he began to lead him toward forneskja’s heart. forneskja is a land of strength and tradition, he explained, slipping naturally into the dialect they shared. we live with respect for the earth and for each other, bound by the balance of what we take and give. each season has its purpose—winter is our time to endure, to rely on each other. and when spring returns, we honor the land and the lives that keep us strong.

he glanced back, studying catamaran’s reaction as he continued. we have a circle here, a place of spirituality tended by my elska and the women of forneskja. it’s a sacred space, untouched by men, where our traditions and the wisdom of the earth are kept. his tone held a note of reverence, a respect for the ways that bound them to something larger.

those who hunt, those who guard, and those who heal are all valued in forneskja. so long as you respect our ways, you’ll find shelter and purpose here, sólhárr said, a quiet confidence lacing his words. but tell me, catamaran—what traditions do you keep, coming from the blackmouth?

It necessitated more active listening than he normally employed to understand the man, but Catamaran felt sure that this difficulty would fade given a little time. He was less certain about how quickly he would grow used to the forest pack's ways — there was not much spirituality in his home pack, even if the reverential tone that Sólhárr employed when speaking of this women's space was familiar to him.

Another quiet cluck marked his thoughtfulness as a question was turned on him — perhaps the first true show of personality from the bounty hunter.

"Blackmouth is a matriarchal pack," he explained without much inflection, though his voice was not quite so rote when he spoke in this tongue. "But they do not stand much on tradition. My grandmother, Moorhen, still rules in that land. Her daughters are many. They guard the bay jealously, and make war with any who draw too near. Men are rarely accepted."

His coral gaze was cast briefly upward when they entered the deeper shade of the trees. The density of the canopy made him just a little uncomfortable, but he was not an overly anxious creature.

"I am the son of Auk. My father was a bounty hunter before me — fathering my litter was his payment for the slaying of a panther that had been eating other wolf cubs in the area. My sisters still reside at Blackmouth. It is a place for warrior women. Men are only allowed to visit."

He had been a man for nearly two years, by now.

"Aside from pantherblood, I carry the name of Cairn-Corten. I hear that this name still lives on this side of the Elysian mountains. The former are warriors, too. The latter are healers and guardians. All of them are sea wolves."

As was he, at heart. But he rarely thought about what he was anymore.

sólhárr listened carefully, taking in each detail with a quiet respect. the concept of a matriarchal, war-bound pack was not foreign to him, though he found himself intrigued by the intensity of blackmouth’s ways. a pack where men were visitors, permitted only at the edge, and where warrior women held the reins—such structure was its own kind of strength, a lineage honed by battle and guarded by fierce loyalty.

the sea has bred its share of warriors, sólhárr replied, his tone thoughtful, catching the glint of history in catamaran’s words. and violence—always violence along the bay. he knew that such a place forged wolves like stone under pressure; he could see that resilience in catamaran now, carried in the cautious, steady way he moved through the forest.

sólhárr paused, casting a glance around the thick canopy above them, sensing his companion’s discomfort as they ventured deeper into the shadows of forneskja. he let the silence linger, a quiet acknowledgment of their differences, before speaking again.

you’re welcome here, catamaran, he affirmed, his voice low but carrying a note of certainty. though you’re born of the sea, forneskja is a land that values strength, no matter its source.

fade in your next :)?

Another quiet cluck; Catamaran had grown up on stories of far-off wars along the coast. There was a place near this land that he intended to visit, though he was not certain he'd be able to find it. Blackrock Depths — the place from which his grandmother hailed.

The bounty hunter wondered how important it really was to him. Yes, he had been born of the sea — but he had been turned out of that place. Did the salt water still run in his veins, even after all the blood he'd spilt so far inland?

Catamaran was quiet as well, eventually parting ways with the hárkonungr, citing the need to familiarize himself with the territory.