Deepwood Weald ships on vigor

i am so sorry for the wait on this @Lótë!

the morning is overcast as he slips out of the borders of his bay, establishing more day by day, to venture into the neutral weald nearby. he does not expect to come across recruits but he makes mental note of the nearby herd movements with the knowledge that no one but the norns knew how the golden threads of their tapestry were woven.

for instance, kjalarr had not thought he would return here. not after so long.

but it is a good place to live the golden years of his life and to die, when that time came for him.

cerulean eye sweeps the playing shadows; left, scarred and milky eye unable to see much but vague shadows. it is much easier now than it had been years ago when the incident had happened. it had taken time for his right eye to learn to overcompensate for not having both eyes but now it is almost as if he had never known anything different.

the northman weaves thru the tangled, gnarled branches of the weald all the same; ears alert ( and more mindful of potential scents than he was prior ).

The ostmen was not the only one who tracked the herds within the glade. 

Lótë weaved amongst the spindly brambles of undergrowth and tree alike, peridots flitting alertly as she wandered. A dip of her head as she tugged the deerhide closer about her frame, the warmth of it slipping and allowing the chill to brush her skin. 

She'd almost mistaken him for the spirit-bear from a distance -- if not for the pale sand that washed his legs in golden stockings and the many scars that laced his immense frame. 

The cloudberry dared to wander closer, calling out in a soft chuff to determine if he desired company. 

sorry for the delay!

the woman is small, willowy and draped in a soft pelage the color of dove feathers. her chuff draws his attention; his head swinging in her direction as he focuses his good eye on her. for a moment, he makes no moves, no sound: just the flare of his nostrils to determine her scents. her posture does not hold within it possessiveness or aggression; thus, kjalarr's remains neutral.

hello, he greets, inviting her company.

Pale gems of malachite flickered as he turned to spear her with a single orb of cobalt -- its twin clouded and foggy. Watching and waiting, she remained poised on the tips of her toes as if she'd become the dove she resembled and was ready to take wing should the snowfall behemoth move in a threatening manner. 

At last, the silence and tension alike break -- both seeming to size the other up and come to a silent agreement. 

"I greet you," Lótë lilted with a slow incline of her head and an owlish blink. She pattered a bit closer, unable to not feel slightly intimidated up close. The man was huge next to her bird-boned frame. 

"What do they call you?" the doe murmured inquisitively. Then, as if recalling to give her own introductions, "I am Lótë of clan Nuiruk."

she has a strange way of speaking that is unfamiliar to kjalarr, but he does not mind it. he fixes her in his good eye, mentally tuning out the writhing shadows of his damaged, milky eye. she asks for his name and offers her own: lótë of clan nuiruk. admittedly, nothing about it rings familiar to kjalarr, whom tucks it away nonetheless.

i am not familiar with your clan, the northman admits, thinking her clan is her pack. i am kjalarr, he, who has had so many names. the nurturer, is the meaning of the one he has gone by and gone back to for majority of his life. of stavanger bay. he motions in the direction of the bay with his muzzle.

An impish grin crossed her lips, realizing her mistake. "Nuiruk is the name my family has taken. There are many of us. I am second wife to our sunman -- sister to our moonwoman." Perhaps it was unwise to share such information with a stranger but the brumal he-wolf did not seem an unsavory sort. If he'd desired to hurt her, he could have easily overpowered her and done so already. 

"Our village is called Moonglow," the cloudberry continued in explanation. "It is good to meet you, Kjalarr."

"I must admit, the Bay is quite beautiful," she grinned, thinking of Antares and wondering who he'd become since. "Why did your clan choose it?" Here, her head cocked in intrigue. 

ah, kjalarr replies; offering a sage nod of understanding. though he does not necessarily understand the titles given, he gets the picture and as far as he's concerned that is the important bit. moonglow, he repeats, softly to himself. he does not remember hearing of it but his return to these wilds are relatively recent. much of what he knew does not exist here any longer. and i, you. he returns the sentiment with a soft bow of his head.

i was born in the bay, kjalarr replies. i feel as if it should be my final resting place as well. he does not say these words grimly: his health is as a good as it could be considering his age but even the northman knows he will not live forever. it is a good place, he feels, to live out the remainder of his life.

"Ah," Lótë echoes back to him. "It was your family's ulax. I can see why it is so important to you." She could empathize. The doe could not imagine ever leaving the Spine or relocating to a new home -- at least not one very far from the village and her family. 

"You will build a village there? Or will you live alone?" the fallow she-wolf asked, wondering if perhaps they might have neighbors on the Coast soon. If this was the first contact between their groups, Lótë hoped it might reflect a future alliance. They were not known for having enemies but it would be of benefit to have allies closer to home -- their Glacier kin were rather far from Ouroboros Spine. 

kjalarr does not recognize the strange words she uses, but so long as she understands he supposes that is all that matters; despite his desperate piecing together with what he assumes it means based on the context. i am building a village, he uses her term with a soft smile and wag of his tail. there are several that have joined in. he was pleased with the progress; in no real hurry to rush it.

things took time, he knew, and this learned patience was hard earned.

Lótë nodded again. "And this would be the name of your village -- Stavanger Bay?" A thought struck her. "Was this the name of your family's village when they lived there?"

The doe knew she was asking many questions but her curiosity was piqued. It was exciting after all, the thought that another pack might be forming close by. "Did your tribe have certain customs? And would you implement them in the new village?" An apologetic smile was sent Kjalarr's way, silently wondering if she was pestering him with all the queries. 

yes, kjalarr replies in a low rumble: figuring that it was ( sometimes ) best to return to the old; plus calling the pack by the territory name just seemed simplier. it was. he murmurs, thinking of the fond memories of his cubhood: briefly spent with his family as they were.

i don't fully remember, kjalarr admits. it was a long time ago and i was seperated from the pack while i was still young...but i imagine they did. my father was a pious man and believed wholly in his gods. his brief stay at odinn's cove had given kjalarr a good look into what shaped his father.

perhaps. but they would not be mandatory. kjalarr offers with a lofty shrug of his shoulders.

Lótë retreated into silence, nodding once more -- sobered by the realization that he must've been lost as a child as her own cubs had been once. Or perhaps worse. Her curiosity was not boundless; the dove refrained from prying into the matter of what had separated Kjalarr from his kin. It wasn't as if she was keen to discuss what had led her to flee home as a youth.

"Might I ask what gods your father worshipped?" This question was more carefully placed, uncertain as she was if it was a painful topic for the pale he-wolf. 

my father worshipped the gods of the northmen. kjalarr replies, offering the information freely; unsure if she would be familiar with them or not. kjalarr, as it was, wasn't what he would consider 'religious' though he dapled in plenty of religion. his father's, the gods that the wolves of blackfeather had worshipped thru his up and down relationship with potema.

"I must admit -- I am unfamiliar with such gods. And with the northmen you speak of," the dove lilted, lips quirking slightly. Kukutux was of the north, and pale too like this sea-wolf. But the inflections of their accents differed, not to mention that there was a notable yet inexplicable difference in the souls of the two. "The spirits of Moonglow are different. Moonwoman and a few others speak to them. I wish I could explain them to you but my place is amongst the trees." Lótë was an earthly, simple woman. One who toiled in paints and walked within the tracks of the herds. The ways of unseen things, of the stars, were better left to her sister and children -- though this was not say that she did not hear the stories and practice the ways of the village.

she mentions that she is not familiar and kjalarr gives a soft, sage nod of his head. he has come to expect it from most; and unfortunately, because he does not carry the devoutness in which his father followed them is not sure how to put to words the deities of his father's home; by proxy: his home as stavanger bay had followed the old gods when kjalarr and his siblings had been born.

it sounds...peaceful, kjalarr remarks thoughtfully in regards to the gods of the moon wolves. the gods of my father often demanded blood. as did the gods of potema's belief ...of which kjalarr was not afraid to give but nevertheless was at a point in his life where it did not seem so necessary.

Lótë's spring gaze slid to the side, observing the edge of the ostman's pale visage as he spoke of blood. "It is," she confirmed in her soft lilt. "But that is not to say that they don't sometimes take. All gods do." There was something that tugged at the corner of her lips -- something rather somber -- as her gaze returned to the path before her. 

Aiwëndil had been lost. And even the dove who had become Lótë knew what it was to love and lose precious things, all on the whims of spirits and gods. 

this felt like a good place to wrap this up? feel free to either archive as is or archive with your reply! <3

of her somber words, kjalarr agrees; though he does not verbalize this. instead, it is written in the soft stifle of his gaze. he knew, as well as anyone else: how greedy the gods could truly be — and not just the gods of the northern wolves. potema's gods had been greedy, too. in his youth, he had carved out niches for himself following this sort of divine savagery. in his elden years: he only seeks peace. rest. the last hurrah before his soul would join those of his family passed on.

well, i shall not keep you, kjalarr drawls in a breath, thinking that he should get back as well. i hope to speak to you soon. kjalarr says with a dip of his head before heading his own way.

sounds good!

Lótë nodded in understanding, shooting the pale guardian a smile. "It's been a pleasure to speak with you. Piunik, safe travels." The bird-watcher did not linger long on her own after watching the scarred silhouette fade from sight, soon finding that she felt ready to return to the village and the work that waited there.