Cedar Sweep like carillon bells, the house of Augustus rings

Gentle sun dappled the leaves of a thousand cedars, rustling the trees a gentle breeze. Beneath the sweeping leaves, far above the ground, a mother sparrow fed her children with what she could scavenge that day. Their incessant peeps only stifled by food in their bellies, then starting again as their father came swooping up onto a nearby branch.

He too, would feed their hungry little mouths. Such was survival.

And from the quiet dimple of the riverbank, where a muddy hallow became water, Passerine, dappled like the leaves, rustled like the trees, watched the small family with something akin to envy. She was quick to tear away her eyes, to focus on the river.

And more importantly, her mark, who had entered the water and never came out, it seemed. With a mental sigh, she cut the thread on that contract, and resigned herself to never being able to go back the way she’d come. For a brief moment, she mourned faces that had almost been familiar, before she shook it away. She strode into the river instead, ducking her head to take from its bursting banks, while also allowing the mud to be washed from her legs.

Solveig followed the sweet scent of cedars toward a forested area where she might find some salvation in the shade. The scent of freshwater drew her too- and I. The mists of it, the scent of a wolf. 

One who smelled as though she was alone- which appealed greatly to Solveig. In this time of year she longed for the company of men, but found herself drawn as well to a bit of a respite from that yearning, and knew she might find some relief in the company of another woman. 

She ducked her head to pass below a low hanging branch, and felt the cedar tickle her withers. She shuddered, and paused there, when she saw the woman at the river’s edge. In a place as beautiful as this, she thought the woman slightly hallowed; perhaps very worthy of her time. She uttered a soft chuff- kindly asking permission to come closer.

She raised her head at the chuff, the steel of her eyes catching the pale shape in the undergrowth. Water streamed from between her teeth, dripping from her whiskers, scattering the faint shapes of tadpoles and minnows in the shallows.

She licked her lips, sweeping away the droplets. The face who approached her was unfamiliar to her, entirely new, and it settled something to know that whoever lived here, they did not know Jericho.

Passerine answered the chuff with one of her own, looking across the way to her. An acceptance of closeness, though wary. It hung in the creases beside her eyes, in the turn of her mouth as she observed the woman. Pale in color, her exact opposite, a dichotomy. The dark woman straightened, letting her head raise to her full height.

Watchful. Wary. But allowing this, for the moment.

It was as if an uneasy truce is called between them, and Solveig strode forward so she might too cool herself in the waters without showing any sign she might edge a hair too close to the other woman. She had fished alongside herons, once- and she felt this woman shared the same, hawkish look to her eyes. Watchful, and yet reasonably willing to allow peace to exist in spite of how easy it was to collapse into calamity. 

Solveig drank from the water, after wading up to her ankles. When she lifted her head, she knew that their chance meeting could have ended there. She could walk away, and leave the lean woman in peace, in the shade. 

A breeze ruffled her fur- she lifted her nose to smell the scent of sweetgrass, and exhaled softly, pleasantly. 

”This place has a good smell,” She said softly. She licked the moisture from her lips and glanced toward the other woman, an unusual warmth to her gaze. ”Is this where you live?” She asked, her tone approving should she confirm

A good smell? Passerine raised her nose to the air and took a deep breath. She was no professional on the matter, but she could admit something did hang in the air here. She looked to the pale woman for a moment, before shaking her head in an answer.

Haven’t been here long. She rasped, working her throat after the words left it. The woman in the water was direct, at the very least. There was nothing Passerine hated more than pussyfooting around. 

She raised an imperious brow towards the top of her forehead. Her head lowered back to the water, swallowing another mouthful.

You? She asked across the water, voice sending ripples out just as much as her breath did.

If Passerine was the reaper, then her voice was a rusted scythe. Solveig noted the rasp, but no more than tilted an ear in reaction to it. To her ears, there was a beauty to it as well; rust would sleep on the blade until it was sharpened, she thought. The traveller seemed like the sort who perhaps shared her voice with very few. 

”No,” She responder. ”I travel. I search,” She said thoughtfully, sparing a moment of silence to drift between them for Passerine to ponder the meaning of those words. ”I am Solveig. What is your name?”

She was a searcher.

There were great many of those in this world. Seekers of death, of love, of peace, of war. Gunmetal grey sought out the spring green of the woman’s eyes, as though Passerine could determine what she searched for by that alone.

Not that it mattered much. Idle curiosity aside, there were no teeth in her throat, so she truly did not care. The woman, Solveig as she had said, could be among the cedars searching for dancers for a dance troup. Passerine amused herself with the thought, her mouth running on autopilot.

Jericho. Easy enough to use, she had been living as Jericho for far longer than she had as Passerine.

Jericho. 

She thought she’d heard the word before- not previously used as a title for another wolf, but by another wolf. Something stirred within her, though she told herself not to put too much stock in that irrational aversion. 

”Jericho.” She repeated thoughtfully. ”It is a beautiful name…Does it have a meaning?” She asked. She tried to recall the context in which the word had been spoken- and found herself associating it with another faith-  one which did not seem to co-exist so freely with those who believed in the Old Gods.

She hummed a short note, strangled at the middle before deepening into her chest.

A city. Part of a religious doctrine. In truth, she’d picked it in a flurry of anger and despair, rage holding the hand of sadness. 

Walls got knocked down. Or something. She flashed a quick fang in a smile, there and gone. 

Never really asked. Passerine curved her tongue out the side of her mouth to catch a stray droplet of water. Jericho had been a grave for Passerine, but the songbird had its ways of crawling right back out no matter how many times she’d buried it.

The note she hummed resonated for a moment- almost enchanting enough to pull Solveig completely from her broken reverie. But the voice caught- and an answer came in the same rasp as before. 

She remembered a bit more, but given the way Jericho spoke, it did not seem as though she took much interest in the subject. Curious. 

”You have no interest in faith, then? In the Gods?” She queried, her interest still stoked.

Gods. Plural.

Passerine licked her whiskers again, the motion akin to the movement of a hand over a chin in thought.

Not the one I know. The one hissed in whispers, the one who demanded absolute faith and punished wrongdoers with an increasingly cruel series of punishments.

Again, her tongue across her whiskers.

Religious, in my own way. You? Her religious tendencies were cursing the god who created her for most of her life. The woman might know kind gods, but Passerine only knew the cruel hands of the only.

Doubt was replaced by optimism, and Solveig thought she saw an opportunity present itself, when Jericho seemingly shunned the religion she had once known. Her tone indicated some amount of distaste, if she’d listened closely enough. She sounded as though she might be searching for just the right kind of deity, the right rules to follow. 

Hljodrfell might offer her an opportunity- if it suited what she was looking for. Faith was not something to be forced on others, but offered.

She nodded. ”I worship the Old Gods, of which there are many. With their guidance, I live a life guided by noble virtues; that being said, it is not a life without pleasure,” She said, smilingly.

Old gods. She had been correct, it was a plural. And the addition of “old” just made it more interesting. She huffed a noise, then broke into a rasping laugh.

The people I knew would have called that heretical. Passerine’s face split into a grin of good humor, though that was the only expression she wore. The rest of her was carefully blank.

She blinked lazily, like a lioness after eating her fill.

Tell me more? It was a decision based purely on the raging she knew would occur if any of the nuns had heard her speak it aloud. It would make the beatings of her childhood look more like patting upon a loyal hound’s head.

"The people you knew would likely frown upon most pleasures, and call several natural inclinations a sin," She clapped back with a light laugh. Her gaze lingered on the woman's face, in such a way as to imply what she truly meant. A gaze that might linger too long for someone who followed a certain religion. Her gaze softened and fell away as she lay down, allowing the cool waters to come up to her chest. She sighed softly, pleasantly. 

"My pack, Hljøðrfell is a place of learning. Where skills are nurtured, and valued. Our folk practice crafts of treating and curing pelts, of healing medicines, of storytelling and singers," She said. "And of course, we hunt and defend as any pack must, but unlike our ancestors, we do not settle all disputes with force, or seek to conquer our neighbours." She said. 

"Our Gods are many; and we pray to the God who might help us with the task we have at hand. We honour them by living by a set of virtues- which would make an honourable creature out of any wolf if they follow them. We live, together, we pray, and we die, and if we have served our purpose well, then there is better than life that awaits us following death." She said. "We do not burst into flames, or turn into a statue or salt for a simple trespass," She chuckled.

If there was one thing living as quietly as she did had taught her, it was that it was easy to goad others into filling her silences. The air filled with the woman’s explanation, and Passerine nodded her way through it.

I don’t follow it. Truly. Not how I’m “supposed to”. Was her offering to the beginning of the conversation, one side of her lips twitching up over a fang in a half smile. Many gods to appeal to was an attractive notion to a woman stifled, and if she tried to think further back, she perhaps could see a past where she had worshipped as many as the birds who filled the trees around her first and last home. The mention of conquest made her stomach sink leaden in her trunk, but the feeling was dashed when the rest of the sentence registered to her ears.

I have enough slights in the eye of their god to burst into flames a thousand times. After all, no matter how many times they told her otherwise, murder was a cardinal sin. Even when committed for a god she had never seen as hers, more warden of her prison. Perhaps that inspired her daring, even as her heart beat faster the longer she entertained the idea.

Your pack. It’s here? Was the woman a native of this land? Or had she travelled away and ended up here, same as Passerine?

Faint wrinkles at the corners of Solveig's eyes creased. "'The way you were supposed to...' Ah, it  to me you have not found a fit for yourself, yet." She said. It seemed fairly obvious that she felt she'd not been able to live by the conditions she'd been in, or meet the approval of those who governed their faith. So much for tales of lost sheep, being gently herded back to the flock when they went astray. It sounded more as though Jericho had simply been cut loose. 

Solveig chuckled quietly at Jericho's statement- wondering what her sins had been. Solveig knew that there were many possible, but she would not have suspected Jericho might have been one to commit an act that Hjløðrfell would also shun her for committing. She didn't seem like the type to commit murder. 

The interest in her pack's location sparked Solveig's interest, and she nodded, gesturing off toward the coast, in the direction of the Keep. "Five days of travel, past this mountain range and to the foothills of the next. Where the sea-salt air meets fresh." She said, pausing for a moment. She looked toward Jericho, invitingly. "I could take you there. I am sorry to disappoint you, but there will be no brainwashing- you will have no obligations, but will be free to speak with Asvoria if you would like."

She listened, the sway of the water around her ankles hypnotic in its own way. She looked down at herself in the water. Solveig was not wrong, not in the slightest. Passerine never found a home among the flock, standing out as the sheep too close to a wolf for their tastes. Less directed by the shepherd, more dragged via a ring in her nose, like a bull. The attack dog of the Lord Almighty.

She wanted to snort just thinking of it. But she didn’t. Instead she watched the woman, noting her even further into her memory, noting the curl of water around her ankles, before gunmetal would lift from the water and focus across the creamy coat to the colors watching her from under the shade of a brow.

Could do with less brainwashing these days. She stepped up to the woman’s flank, leaving the water with a vigorous slosh.

If this is a murder cult, I’m not going to be happy. Too many of those. The biting sarcasm in her tone couldn’t hide the undercurrent of humor.

Expecting to be surprised. A challenge in the quirk of her wine red brow.

Quietly, she considered how Jericho might feel in Hljóðrfell. She did not find that their ways were smothering, nor was shame used to goad their newcomers into believing or following their ways. Jericho would have the freedom to learn of their Gods, and to prey to them with some guidance, if she wished. She might learn the many, subtle ways the Gods made themselves present in their lives, and come to revel in it. 

Or, she might not find her faith at all- and perhaps she might go. 

But at least she could come, and go in peace. 

The comment about a murder cult was received with a blank look of surprise. "Oh, if that is the case-" She trailed off, rising slightly from the waters as though to turn and leave. She froze, watching for Jericho's reaction, before she smiled and slid back into the water, chuckling. "No, no- I joke, I joke." She said. "Truth be told, though, our ancestors once lived a much more brutal life where, eh, yes, there would have been a good deal of murdering, conquering, such things as this, yes," She admitted. "But no more; we have...Evolved," She laughed. "Again- I do not burst into flame saying these things- and not because I am...Laying in water, but because it is not our way." She said. She gave another inviting flick of her chin. "You should come back with me." She lured Jericho with a brazen, warm gaze.

She was a force of nature, this woman, and who was Passerine to fight against that tide? In that way she was no better than a man. Lured by a pretty face with no idea of where she would take her.

Well, at the moment, she had nowhere else to be and nothing to do. Passerine was dead, Jericho a sinner so far deep that a thousand hail Mary’s couldn’t wash her clean. She moved with a ripple of black velvet, muscle smooth under her skin, as she prowled the shore around the woman. A leopardess, circling a ring of protective fire.

I should? She asked with a soft tilt of her head, barely an inch to the side.

Passerine gave a throaty laugh, like the wooden croak of a raven.

I will. Her grin was all teeth.

No need to worry your pretty little head. I’m convinced. It wasn’t like she was in any sort of hurry back to where she came from.

"Good. I do not want to worry my pretty little head," Solveig chuckled, with mock smugness. The sight of Jericho circling her on the banks didn't worry her- though she wondered if she might ever need to be reined in at all while guarding the pack's borders. But Solveig felt convinced that Jericho would be fine, with them- tempered, perhaps, by the fact that she was being offered a home, and companionship. 

Solveig rose and stretched, reluctantly rising from the water which had felt comfortable and fresh. "Well," She said, "I think I have washed all of the doom and gloom from myself, and will turn into a prune soon." She smiled at her own use of assonance. "Shall we?"