Ravensblood Forest The village school is cold and still.

There seemed to be little left in the world for Dagfinn beyond the simple pleasures he afforded himself: the thrill of a good chase, the occasional warmth of another body beneath his own, and the unending stretch of unexplored wilderness.

He had not backtracked in many moons, but today, he found himself in a land he had known once before. As a younger man; a different man, perhaps. His heart ached for that poor youth, and for the things that young man had lost and squandered — but he did his best not to dwell on the pain, and, unable to move past it, moved continually alongside and adjacent to it. Forever circling the now empty "north" where his internal compass used to point — Lotte.

The needle spun ceaselessly, soundlessly in his chest. Dagfinn ignored this, too, and continued through the dark, bleeding trees as though they were of no account to him. He was good at this; at living with ghosts without looking directly at them. They had haunted him, once, but he had the power; he was the one left alive.

But, sometimes, he allowed himself another liberty, and it was this: He looked at the woods and he saw them, and remembered, and imagined, and in the dark of the woods he began to sing softly to himself as he walked, the words secret to any who did not speak Tundrian.

Dancing bears, painted wings
Things I almost remember
And a song someone sings
Once upon a December

Someone holds me safe and warm
Horses prance through a silver storm
Figures dancing gracefully across my memory...

the growing roots of ironclan firmly in place, wintersbane no longer feels so needled at the idea of stepping out of his own claim beyond the sentinels, which he haunts frequently to keep a close eye on the rutting deer that occupy it for the interest of feeding the bellies of his ranks. he seeks outward now, not wishing umbra to have all the glory of recruitment; paws carrying him towards the place that was his almost birthright.

though wintersbane was quick to cast away the strath despite that it was where his mother’s body was lain to rest.



a song carries thru the bleeding trees; an unfamiliar scent that carrying over the sweet cloy of sticky tree sap and sharp tang of pine needles. a small shudder slithers its way down the hale tundrian’s spine as he recognizes the words; following the baritone melody as if it were a siren call.

it harkens to a simpler time when he was but a cub and the nightingale queen would sing him ( and siblings ) a lullaby.

wintersbane makes no effort to conceal his footsteps as he draws nearer and nearer, shrugging past the thick underbrush. the stranger looks similar to him in appearance, similar to lotte. an invisible hand grasps wintersbane’s throat; tight with emotion.

tiedätkö kielen? for in all of wintersbane’s life in these wilds ( and even the time he spent outside of them, brief as they always were ) he heard none other than lotte speak it.

The approach of another does not bother the ravenclad dancer; he is swift and strong, and if he is also polite and crafty, he knows he has nothing to fear.

No, it is the appearance of the stranger that strikes Dagfinn still and dumb, a cold lump forming in his chest and then quickly melting away to flood his lungs and well in his eyes. Lotte, he breathes, and knows that this must surely be another apparition. He had looked too closely at her once-kingdom, and now she had come to him again after being banished for so long.

But the man speaks, and Dagfinn knows he is mistaken; that this is someone else, but perhaps not someone else altogether.

Syntymästä, he replies, still choked. Who are you?

He knows who it is — except he knows it could be either one of them; he had only seen them on the day of their birth, once, and then never again. Ceallach? Roarke? He has imagined meeting them so many times, but long since, has given up hope. They are as lost to him as she is —

Or they were.

Umbra followed the Saltlord out of curiosity, she didn't try much to hide her presence, nor' made herself known. The two weren't well-acquainted, yet he accepted her so as a Sealord that she had always desired so. Out of respect to the man, did she try to mark the borders more prominently then would she on her own, and even threw thoughts of dictatorship out the window. Satisfied with how it was, to throw him off the throne was no longer needed. Though even back-then that was only a lacking thought if she didn't achieve the previous rank of Saltqueen.

Surprisingly, gained loyalty that so far, the kraken had only placed in Sunhawk. Trust was hard to gain, for any and all would prove to be nuisances in the end, or traitors to the kind. Wary of Moor, and any else who would join Ironclan, and thus she watched them with a keen stormy eye. Constant scrutinizing.

When she arrived to the scene that was another wolf, but the two spoke vaguely of a language she heard. There was another fellow that seemed to speak the liking, and Umbra and him had clashed in fangs that day. She wasn't sure if it was the same, but then again, majority of foreign languages sounded similar. 

Umbra only knew the common-tongue.

The Sealord watched a bit away from them, once more not hiding her presence, but looking at the other with a bit of hostility. Her stance was guarded, preparing for the worst outcome.

skippable unless noticed!

lotte.

far from, but of a similar cut of his mother, no doubt.

his shadow makes no attempts to conceal herself and the sealord is given a small glimpse from gelid, polar gaze before it falls back upon the man who speaks to him. from birth.

ceallach? roarke?

wintersbane has not seen his brother since ...since he was a wee lad. he knew not even if any of his littermates were even alive; and supposed it didn't really matter. circumstances made it so that he was not close to them. force of teeth made sure that he didn't even acknowledge molly as his relative anymore.

roarke. he hasn't heard or gone by that name in a very long time. it's the name of the boy that died a long, long time ago. his father's name for him, anyway. i was roarke, he says. but i haven't went by that name in a very long time. instead, i go by wintersbane.

His heart leaps — a violent motion, like the full-throttle desperation of a salmon struggling back upstream. Oh, Lotte. He sighs, deep and heavy, but there is a smile widening across his dark maw.

Wintersbane, he repeats, so that the young man knows that he will play by these rules, respect this statement. Yes — a good, strong name. It suited him. It would have suited Lotte — a whole lot better than snowbutt. The thought makes him smile a little wider, until he must seem near insane to his estranged nephew. He laughs, his voice throaty with unshed tears.

The last time I saw you, I could fit you in my mouth, he said, and as he spoke, he remembered that this was true, that he had tried — memories long repressed came flowing back — those last, lovely days with his twin and her family before he left on his trip, never to return to her side. She had scolded him, told him she'd break something of his if he broke one of her sons.

I am Dagfinn Ansbjørn, he said. Lotte was my sister. My twin. He would not claim the title of uncle; he was sure he did not deserve it. Nor did he ask after the rest of the children, content enough, for the moment, to bask in the presence of Wintersbane — Oh, Lotte! You would be so proud, he imagined. The boy, after all, was his rival in height and his better in sheer mass. They were near equally scarred, he thought, and so he knew the boy must also be a warrior. He wondered if he was also a bard, but asking was too much for him, then. He could only look, and drink in the many many changes, and gradually realize they were not alone.

Hello, he said, the word stretching into two appreciative syllables as his gaze shifted to Umbra.

Her ear flickered upon listening, gently easing the bristled she had held. Hearing that this man was Wintersbane- or Roarke's family, she dropped it so. Though not entirely, as Umbra knew too well family can be just as easy as betrayed, the phrase blood is thicker then water never seemed to be true, for in the end, only who she deemed as family, or friend, deserved her trust. Though she would never admit who was a 'friend.'

She approached beside the Wintersbane, a subtle nod to Daginn, "Hello," she greeted cooly, "I am Umbra, Sealord of Ironclan alongside with Wintersbane." For once, she could proudly claim a title that was hers. 

so many things, a lot of them wildly unfair, flit thru wintersbane's mind. he, of all wolves, has no right to want to know why his uncle left ...especially considering he's done plenty of it himself. if anything, it puts into perspective a factor of wintersbane's own choices and personality that he doesn't really want to face down. again. still, there was something about hearing that not only was he lotte's twin the last time his uncle saw him, he could fit in his mouth.

that was a long, long time ago now.

a lot has changed since you were last here. wintersbane says, though that was obvious enough. i am the only one left now. wintersbane admits, leaving dagfinn to assume whatever he might by those cryptic words. wintersbane's siblings, if they were out there somewhere, might as well have been dead. well, he pauses. me and my kids; many of which i probably don't even know about. while it hardly paints him in a good light it's the truth — meeting quellcrist had simply been a happy coincidence. had their paths not crossed he wouldn't have known about her existence either.

wintersbane falls silent then, giving umbra the floor briefly to introduce herself.

Change was expected — the deaths of his nieces and nephew were less so. This pained him, and it pained him to hear Wintersbane say that he was the only one left. When he included his children — nameless and numerous as they might as well be — Dagfinn gave a firm shake of his head.

Ei — you are not the last. There are many still on the tundra. There is me, he pointed out, unsure what this might mean to the younger man. He hoped it would be of some comfort, and then hoped he didn't need comfort at all.

He was pleased to meet Umbra, and said so with a deep bow. Where do you stay? he asked the man, keen on knowing exactly where he could be found.

skippable unless addressed!

He was polite, and bowed at her so. She only gently dipped back out of politeness for more Wintersbane, then of Dagfinn- but regardless, the big question hung within her thoughts. Would he join with them, or simply family meeting? She remained silent, perhaps overbearing in the way Umbra looked down on many, and simply stayed beside the Wintersbane.

that their is more of his family — their family, he corrects himself — than just him and his numerous bastard children brings a small comfort to wintersbane; instead he feels a small twinge, unsure what to really make of it. not really feeling any comfort at all. he might not be the last ansbjørn nor fearghal but he might as well be. he doubts he’ll ever return to the tundra and cross paths with any more than dagfinn and based upon his own experience with family he does not expect his uncle to linger around. if by some miracle to wintersbane he does, he expects dagfinn to come to hate him as mallaidh had. cruel, but it wasn’t like he had much else to go off of.

wintersbane had a unique talent of sowing hatred among he and his family.

umbra is silent at his side and he pays her physical proximity attention with a swivel of his ear, his polar gaze remains fixed upon his uncle. we claim stavanger bay, west of here. he makes a small gesture with his muzzle; his curiosity following unknowingly along the lines of umbra’s unspoken own.

word count: 194