Arrow Lake my feelings are too loud for words and too shy for the world

@Kjalarr

She’d been going in what she thought had been north when she reaches a rocky terrain and inclines and steep cliffs. The mountain range separates her from her birth home. She’s faced with where to go from there and she knows she should have gone right, with the range on her leg—for certainly she’d find her way around with the ocean at her side—but she decides upon left instead. Eventually, she comes side by side with a creek that leads her down to a lake.

Adeline notes the shores are different than she’s seen before. Sandy, instead of muddy or rocky, and it reminds her a little of coastal sand. When she approaches, and feels her feet sink into the soft, glimmering sand, the feeling is just as familiar—if not softer—and the ground easily warms her paws. She finds a spot along the lake’s shore and lowers to the ground, resting her tired legs and soaking up some warmth from the sun on a fading afternoon.

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Kjalarr travels further from Sawtooth Spire than he has since the day he was drawn to it’s towering, treacherous peak. He can see it in the distance when he pauses to glimpse over his shoulder. The apex of the world, Kjalarr believes. Jagged and deadly rib-cage bone of Aurgelmir that threatens to slice the sky asunder. Kjalarr turns back to his path though he has no real destination in mind; he has not forgotten his once desire to hold the specialty of ranger and supposes that is what draws him from his chosen home on the Sawtooth. He knows he should return for Arrille before he is entirely ripped from his grasp but he has nothing stable for his son with Ondine. For a (very) brief moment he is overwhelmed with guilt that he is selfish and has yet to abnegate himself and crawl to the nearest pack on his belly and plea them to take him and his son in. Surely, by now, they could have been reunited. The time spent away from him gives over to Ondine’s influence and Kjalarr wants Calder to adhere to his viking culture. He wants to have an influence beyond looks. The guilt does not last long. His son is his son and Kjalarr has been generous with the stories of his Gods and spoke of his beliefs enough in the months he spent with his son raising him. Kjalarr is sure that he is doing the right thing — though if it is for Arrille or himself he has yet to try to deduce.

The hard earth gives way to sand beneath paws and he draws in a sharp breath for a moment, focusing back upon his surroundings. He thinks, for a moment, that he has traveled all the way to the coast, absent of raptorial focus as he was but he does not hear the sea. It is a lake, instead, that stretches out before him. It only reminds him of what else he has failed to do. He cannot remember the last time he has been to Stavanger Bay and though he seeks no trouble with the pack he believes still resides there he desires to visit his natal territory. It holds nothing for him. His claim of birthright over it has diminished over the years and with Ragnar’s grave and the shrines of the gods defiled and stolen it is no longer the holy place it had been for his father. Polar Caribbean gaze sweeps the small beach the lake provides and comes to rest upon a woman in the sand. Her coat is an agouti mixture of earthen colors and there is a small, bird-like cant to the scarred northman’s head as he studies her unbidden. Unaware of whether she has become aware of his presence or not he lets out a low, amiable chuff to garner her attention.

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The sun warms her fur, soaking into her skin and giving her reminisce of days with nothing weight her mind down. Her green eyes close while her head floats freely above her shoulders, nose pointed toward the quiet of the lake. The sounds amplify the longer she allows herself to listen without the distraction of sight. Birds chirp in the distance, ducks splash in the lake ahead, and there’s gentle footfalls disrupting the sand. The speed of the steps are not enough to alarm her, but her ears swivel upon her head to enjoy the last few moments of the silence in warmth. Her eyes open a moment later, turning to see the pale wolf down, away from the lake.

Adeline stiffens her posture, rising so that she is sternal but she does not lift from the sand. The male away from her does not look familiar but she’s drawn to the prominent scars across his muzzle and complimenting blue eyes that pop from his pale fur. “Hey,” she says, voice, quiet as her ears fold back and she eventually picks herself up to her feet.

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The woman with a pelage the colors of the earth notices him, though he thinks he is hard not to notice. Pelage of platinum silver does not offer him good camouflage and the vivid red of scars long healed offer something even more distinctive to the eye. Kjalarr thinks he notices her posture stiffen despite that she has yet to rise from the sand of the bank but that does not matter. He is not sure why he breaches the silence to make contact with her. Perhaps, he thinks, not everything has to have a reason, a defining force behind it. Or perhaps it does. Perhaps it is just the basic, archaic instinct of survival. Though he can hold his own in a fight a lone wolf finding himself in spars — for food, for shelter, for having accidentally startled — will begin to spell disaster after a time. Kjalarr is arrogant but he is not ignorant. To his surprise she greets him back and his velveteen ears cup forth atop his skull, cradling the sound of her voice as it breaches the distance between them. “Hey,” The scarred Northman returns with a twitch of his lips. “You look lonely.” He observes lightly in an attempt to make small talk because he feels it is an obligation that he must fulfill all the while subtly offering her his company for a time.

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Adeline swallows a lump in her throat. She's never felt quite so small and the urge to stand takes over. A few shuffling of her feet but she rises to all fours—still towered over by the silver brute—but there's an improvement. She feels sand lodged in places of her fur she wishes to shake out but she doesn't wish to let her guard down. The way he holds himself is different than most wolves, a more demanding dominance than she has been used to. Her ears slick back against her head and she bobs it once with an added shrug of her shoulders.

"Yeah, I guess so," she answers without much thought to the statement. She had not enjoyed her time away when she departed Easthollow and since her return, she'd kept around wolves as much as she could, leading her from one group to the next and, here she stands with nothing to show for it. "I'm just enjoying a little adventure... you know?" she ends with an awkward chuckle.

i am sorry for the awful quality of this post. ;-;

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Kjalarr watches as she rises to her paws and for a moment the scarred northman expects her to depart. To his surprise, quickly muted as it was, she does not. It flickers across the glacial depths of his lingering gaze for a moment as she, more or less, concurs to his observation. She is a curious thing, Kjalarr decides with a bird-like cant of his head — a gesture that comes from his father. Curiosity is not something that has fallen short of Ragnar’s son. Kjalarr has often considered that is a trait passed down as opposed to one’s own desire to figure out the world and it’s inhabitants around them. Odinn was curious. He traded his eye for knowledge and often Kjalarr asks himself what he would be willing to trade for it. In the case of the Allfather, however, an eye seemed insignificant compared to what he gained from the bargain. As Kjalarr had been vision impaired when he was younger he assumed he’d be fortunate enough to adjust quickly if he made the decision to forego an eye for knowledge. She elaborates with an awkward chuckle, telling him that she is enjoying a little adventure, drawing him back in. Kjalarr’s ears cup forth offering her his rapt attention willingly as she reaches out to reclaim it. “Has it been an exciting adventure so far?” Kjalarr asks amiably.

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Adeline tries to allow herself to relax but it accomplishes little. Her posture does not length and instead she is a little hunched and her ears remain low, tail lazy behind her. The brute sticks around for small talk and a swell in her stomach gives her acidic butterflies tormenting her insides. The loner life has never been for her. If she knew she had a pack, even in travel from home, she may have been quicker to let herself ease into something a little more friendlily. She has no one to return to and the need to be careful far more outweighs any of her other decisions. Still, he tries to continue the conversation and she gives him a weak smile in return. “Not really,” she comments and shrugs as nonchalant as her nervousness will allow, but her smile does broaden before she relaxes her facial features. I want to go home.

She lifts her chin a little and smooths out the tension in her shoulders, hoping to ease some of the stress from the air between them (or over her, as reading others have never been terribly easy). “You look lonely, too,” she then observes, if only to placate their small talk.

They did not linger long together before their small talk diminished and they went on their own way.