Raven's Watch sacra

Tagging @Stjornuati and @Kigipigak!

Not long ago had Dart taken up residence in the mountains, finding a particularly craggy cliffside that was teeming with his own kind. It had taken a few weeks — and much probing — but eventually the other ravens grew used to the oddity who had decided to also call this place home. Many however were already in well established cliques, families who did not trust outsiders. No matter, D'Artagnan preferred the company of wolves, anyway.

He had actually seen quite a few lately, scaling the ridges, winding their way through the many paths and trails that cut around the mountainside. The bird observed them from afar, curious. They seemed to grow in number each day and were all quite large wolves, fit for living in the mountains, though he had always thought wolves were animals of the forests. He wondered what their reason for being here was.

Finding a perch high amongst the branches of a tall, spindly tree, Dart busied himself with preening his pale feathers, all the while keeping an eye on the path below. It was time he interrogated one of these interloper wolves.

The watched path was not absent its travelers; today, Stjornuati carried an offering for the ravens he put so much faith in. They led him, tirelessly, endlessly, even in his dreams. Even back at the Keep, he kept a good relationship with the feathered creatures, and sought to do so now, especially as he wished to settle in this land. What good would it do to settle in such a place if the birds he so revered wanted nothing to do with them?

So, he carried the piece of bi-colored tourmaline in the careful trap of his teeth, having found it on his travels of these mountains. Its glint had caught his eye on a cold, autumn morning, and he knew then that it would make the perfect gift for the birds who so loved their glittery objects.

Only when did he feel the drum of the hringja quiet did Stjornuati halt along the path, eyes finding a particular pine tree with branches lower, closer to the ground than others. Raw, unfettered gem placed at his feet, his forepaws found the trunk of the tree, holding him up as he peered into the boughs, seeking a raven that would give him the time of day.

He did not have to wait for long. As if on cue, a wolf appeared, svelte and limber, with a pale coat of warmer shades than Dart's own. The raven watched curiously as the creature came to a stop underneath the very tree he sat in, dropping something upon the ground before rearing up and placing his weight upon the pine as if searching for something.

This one seemed as good as any to ask some questions.

With a flutter of his wings, D'Artagnan leapt from branch to branch until he was in eyeshot of the male, releasing a low, drawn out croak to get his attention. It was then the glint of the gemstone at his feet caught the bird's eye. "Wolf has been blessed with such a lucky find, yes?" he cawed, peering down at the predator, or, more precisely, his shiny gift.

Whoever he had hoped to entice down to speak with him, Stjornuati was not expecting who chose to descend. Breath stole from his lungs as the bleach-feathered creature fluttered and hopped its way down, livered eyes widening in surprise and boyish wonder. The white raven was a sign, a significant vision in the lore of his people, and that it chose to appear here and now, to him...

Stjornuati's face broke into a rare, brilliant and toothy grin, tail waving behind him as he looked up at the bird. If this wolf is blessed with find, then hrafn is blessed with gift. This one brings such htfjársjóður for you. For he was the bird that had come to him and so the gift was for the pale-one, and the pale-one alone. On all fours again, the golden crested male dropped his head top nudge the gem forward with his nose, taking a step back to allow the bird closer without threat.

His joy was infectious, and Dart let out a series of squawks in laughter as the man peered up at him with a goofy, tooth-filled grin. Surely he had a few years to him, but right now the pale wolf looked more like a young cub who had discovered a large pile of untouched bones.

With another croak, the raven dropped from the branch and to the ground as the man announced the gift was for him! He blinked in surprise, looking from the wolf, to the gem, and then back again. It was nosed forward, before the male then took a respectful step back.

"Pour moi?" he breathed, blue eyes widening. He appraised the gift-giver with a sidelong look, before taking a few daring hops forward, inspecting the glimmering gem, riveted. "Am most honoured, señor lobo," he said, looking back up to the man and his dark gaze.

"Is not often one finds themself showered with such..." He paused for a moment as he ran the odd word through his head a couple of times, before uttering in perfect mimicry. "...htfjársjóður!"

He held steady as the little sýn tested the waters, hopping closer and uttering a collection of words, not all of which Stjornuati understood. The ravens of the north often spoke in many tongues as well and he was delighted to find that the more southern species retained that trait.

Ja, htfjársjóður! He confirmed for the bird, tail wagging with enthusiasm to match the bird's own. This one is Stjörnuáti af Stormskýli, friend of hrafn, raven. Sitting back on his haunches, the pallid wolf kept his grin about him as he introduced himself, pleased to see that the raven one appreciated the gift he had brought with him.

Once he confirmed the gem was not simply a ploy to get Dart onto the ground and into the wolf's eagerly awaiting jaws, the raven hopped atop the jewel, wings fluttering as he balanced upon it. He craned his neck, inspecting the precious gift with a soft hum of satisfaction.

Stjörnuáti, the man introduced himself as with his thick, strange accent, and Dart bobbed his head in understanding. He had come across many wolves during his travels, all with weird and wonderful tongues, but he had never encountered one quite like this. "Am D'Artagnan," he crowed with a bow, adding with a wink, "friend of wolves."

"An interesting accent Stjörnuáti has, yes?" he went on, quirking his head inquiringly. "Where is this one from?" Surely not from here; he hadn't the look of the many other canines of these lands.

The plume of his tail continued to wave at the pale raven's approval, listening close as he introduced himself as D'artagnan. Having never heard a name like it before and hearing it's pronunciation, Stjornuati knew he would not be able to repeat such a moniker so easily, though he would try, for the raven. Ja. This one hails from many weeks north, where cold and snow and ice is year-long. In truth, he could not wait for Winter to make it's way here, the falling temperatures comfortable and familiar to the man.

And D-- D'artan...ian? He looked to the blue eyed avian with his brows knit together briefly. Where is D'artanyan from?