The heat had come and gone.
Ayovi curled herself upon Skorpa’s bear hide and rested for three entire days. She was spent, sore, exhausted, at length rising only when she could no longer bear to look upon the mussy state of their hollow. She wasn’t certain the northman minded the filth, or if he even noticed. Possibly, he’d always lived in similar squalor; but no longer.
As Skorpa departed for an early hunt or to further scout their territory, Ayovi began excavating their cave's bedrock, scraping the foundation of gravel and dirt and petrified bones into various piles before discarding it outside the denmouth. When the earth was cleared enough to see the veined stone beneath, she started at the walls, realizing quickly more than claw was needed to scrub away the stippling of animal excrement and ages of mire.
Her search took her in a descent down the mountainside, navigating jagged edges until the high miles fell away and a snow-path guided her into the rich, evergreen foothills waiting below. It was her first proper exploration and the mountain in its entirety seemed to hum beneath her paws. Even filthy and aching as she was, Ayovi felt a spurt of giddiness. She traced rimed ferns with her nose, pawing at powdered hummocks for hidden riches and along the base of an ancient tamarack she found vigorous, mossy colonies. Their threads were freed from binding treeroots as well as a mouthful of dittany; both plants which would be mottled into a salve to cleanse the walls of stonehaven. Later in the week she would return for wildmint and manzanita to perfume their homestead.
With a maw overflowing in greenery, the hunter traces back up the rise with no intention of slowing. But the spindly underpinning of a fallen tree grapples for attention. It is broken with decay and obscured entirely in snow and frozen curtains of draping moss, but there is a certain, gnawing musk here. Setting her bundle aside, Ayovi examines this place more closely.
An image forms. Delicate, and faint, forged from curls of wintery mist. There is no mistaking it. At some point in time, years upon years ago, this had been someone’s home.
Ayovi does not fully understand what feeling overcomes her then. Her voice to the air calls for @Skorpa, if he is close enough to hear it.
Ayovi curled herself upon Skorpa’s bear hide and rested for three entire days. She was spent, sore, exhausted, at length rising only when she could no longer bear to look upon the mussy state of their hollow. She wasn’t certain the northman minded the filth, or if he even noticed. Possibly, he’d always lived in similar squalor; but no longer.
As Skorpa departed for an early hunt or to further scout their territory, Ayovi began excavating their cave's bedrock, scraping the foundation of gravel and dirt and petrified bones into various piles before discarding it outside the denmouth. When the earth was cleared enough to see the veined stone beneath, she started at the walls, realizing quickly more than claw was needed to scrub away the stippling of animal excrement and ages of mire.
Her search took her in a descent down the mountainside, navigating jagged edges until the high miles fell away and a snow-path guided her into the rich, evergreen foothills waiting below. It was her first proper exploration and the mountain in its entirety seemed to hum beneath her paws. Even filthy and aching as she was, Ayovi felt a spurt of giddiness. She traced rimed ferns with her nose, pawing at powdered hummocks for hidden riches and along the base of an ancient tamarack she found vigorous, mossy colonies. Their threads were freed from binding treeroots as well as a mouthful of dittany; both plants which would be mottled into a salve to cleanse the walls of stonehaven. Later in the week she would return for wildmint and manzanita to perfume their homestead.
With a maw overflowing in greenery, the hunter traces back up the rise with no intention of slowing. But the spindly underpinning of a fallen tree grapples for attention. It is broken with decay and obscured entirely in snow and frozen curtains of draping moss, but there is a certain, gnawing musk here. Setting her bundle aside, Ayovi examines this place more closely.
An image forms. Delicate, and faint, forged from curls of wintery mist. There is no mistaking it. At some point in time, years upon years ago, this had been someone’s home.
Ayovi does not fully understand what feeling overcomes her then. Her voice to the air calls for @Skorpa, if he is close enough to hear it.
February 15, 2025, 09:03 PM
by incredible contrast, skorpa of the white jaw had slept far easier these several nights than in all his life. he has slumbered in the mud of battle camps and spent days awake on raiding schedule. a roof, a meal, a bearskin, and ayovi — it was almost completely satisfying for the northman.
while ayovi found the putrescence of their dwelling untenable, skorpa dug a cache nearby. only thin streams crossed the ridge overhead, and the trees clumped together in tinier copses. it was not impossible, but lacked the sort of luxury he had envisioned.
to tell the truth, he was not one to understand the layout of a more permanent camp, yet would never admit such a disadvantage. and with the obstacle of language still between them, it could not be said at all.
he searched for the thickening neck of a river, rimed in ice and splendorous in a cold mist which clung to the hairs of his bearpelt. hunting along its bank, skorpa discovered a beaver's-dam which forced the waterway to take two paths.
jubilant, skorpa listened to the cardinals singing for one another, his steps taking him in amble along the more slender of those riverlimbs. it was here that ayovi's voice rose, strung with some emotion. his eyes narrowed in assessment. not fear nor worry tinged her call, but the northman was swift for her all the same
river became a blue stream, and not far from its sound was his mate. skorpa grew warm on approach, unable to hide his deep joy in simply looking at her. swathed in the fragrance of several herbs, her attention at last directed his own. "vil du også have den her?" he asked, confused, marveling. not comprehending. however, he would dig a cache at every cave she desired, happily even. perhaps she wanted this one for her herbs.
he lifted a bundle and set it down inside the root-space, looking toward ayovi for approval.
“Husband,” she names in affection as soon as the bear emerges from the trees. Ayovi had been relieved to find it was not the fire’s pull which bound them. Though she'd needed time to adapt to new womanhood, she is surprised to feel what vinous and immediate effect Skorpa’s approach has on her body.
With a flush, she redirects to the sunken tree, lest the northman scent such tinglings at bloom beneath her coat. Endearingly and with little understanding, her mate aims to help, setting her bundle within the protection of the tree-home. For this she cannot quell the tender tail-ticks, nor the reach of her kiss as she fusses about his cheeks and jaw. It did not escape her that any other man might dismiss this as strictly women’s work, while her own chosen sought to encourage her.
“Do you smell them?” Still flush against his side, Ayovi makes audible sniffs into the musty air. “There are spirit-beings here. They will trade protection in exchange for a home. We must create a consecrated place on Stjerneberg. A hjem for moor. ”
Do northerners believe such things? Are they bound by a higher power? Ayovi thinks of Faust and nurses her doubts.
She raises a paw against her husband’s chest, “Moor. Spirit,” repeating the two words as the hand finds her own. Last a call is lifted for the sky where spirits too lived within the sun, the moon, the stars, the wind.
With a flush, she redirects to the sunken tree, lest the northman scent such tinglings at bloom beneath her coat. Endearingly and with little understanding, her mate aims to help, setting her bundle within the protection of the tree-home. For this she cannot quell the tender tail-ticks, nor the reach of her kiss as she fusses about his cheeks and jaw. It did not escape her that any other man might dismiss this as strictly women’s work, while her own chosen sought to encourage her.
“Do you smell them?” Still flush against his side, Ayovi makes audible sniffs into the musty air. “There are spirit-beings here. They will trade protection in exchange for a home. We must create a consecrated place on Stjerneberg. A hjem for moor. ”
Do northerners believe such things? Are they bound by a higher power? Ayovi thinks of Faust and nurses her doubts.
She raises a paw against her husband’s chest, “Moor. Spirit,” repeating the two words as the hand finds her own. Last a call is lifted for the sky where spirits too lived within the sun, the moon, the stars, the wind.
February 16, 2025, 01:56 PM
skorpa did not understand, and this showed for a moment before his countenance grew thoughtful. she spoke of the star mountain, their home. but she spoke of — another home.
warm beside him, ayvoi drew breaths he mimicked. he was distracted by her; he passed his teeth gently across the hem of one ear before he directed himself again. hjem for moor. unthinking did he cover her paw with his own, the corners of his mouth twitching with an uncontrollable smile of pleasure. but she was given over to this sentiment, and now called in doleful soberness for the wintry heavens above.
some inkling came to skorpa, and he remembered what he had decided of ayovi when he had woken after her attention to his suppurating wound: that she was one who worked seiðr.
still he did not fully comprehend, and frustration began to mount in the chest of the northman. "spirit," muttered his voice, but he was staring hard at the bunch of greenery he had placed inside the denmouth.
it was special to her. tentatively he gestured up the path by which they came to the chosen den, then to this one. a blink asked if she wanted to move here, if some sensation had stirred her from that alcove in snowy stone. this place held some importance for ayovi, and understanding drifted just out of skorpa’s grasp.
decided to time skip, please let me know if you have objections <3
Ayvoi stands silent and composed, the new serenity which found her ceding to the verity of their relationship with little language. She scents his frustration and wishes it could be easy between them. She'd been so immersed in her own life’s change that she had not truly considered the sacrifices nor the desires of Skorpa. The anxious sensation in her gut returns— a feeling like the instant after a cut, before the pain comes. But she remembers how quickly the norseman had soothed this in her and comes toward him, leveling his intense gaze on her.
“It’s all right. It’s going to take time,” she presses a kiss to his muzzle and falls into silence. Earthen bundle reclaimed by teeth, Ayovi flashes the man with doting eyes and ferries up into the mountain.
* * *
That night she’d had enough rest and leapt into Skorpa’s arms as soon as he’d passed into the threshold, stumbling them into a corner of the den where the wind could no longer harry him. She’d leaned in, twisting strands of red fur through her paws and nipped the man’s bottom lip. This was another world of rapture. The groans, the whispers, the rhythmic connection that was not that of seasonal automation. If this was to be their only shared tongue she coveted it, imagining that every day could end like this.
At last when their moans had abated a flushed cheek buries into the warmth of her husband's bearskin. She brings in the traces of his day to nose, letting it mellow her. She can scent the familiar places he'd been, the animals he'd encountered. He could not recount these events to her, so she devised her own narratives: Skorpa dancing with ravens. Skorpa finding a hind's nest near the bitcurrent.
Her eyes are heavy upon him, their blue alight with a curious gleam. She smiles, taking his face in her paw and drawing him close so their temples touch. This near, all she can see are his eyes. Glossy, bright, smoldering embers in firelight.
An ivory paw finds the thumping in his chest.
“Heart,” she whispers.
February 16, 2025, 07:17 PM
neverrr <3
her voice soothed. though once more the words were not grasped, their gist was more than clear: ayovi meant to be a balm. her soft tongue smoothed a proverbial salve over the hurt places inside skorpa which chafed with disuse and ached in want.
ironically, he felt that if the gods themselves made his mouth worth something that very next morn, he would not have been able to speak. regvnand still made jerky of him, stretching skorpa with shock and surprise until he was tied in speech.
***
a time of fire. a second of ease. his arms shifted in languid response to ayovi, to the way she drew his face to her own and transfixed him anew with this show of trusting love. an inhale filled skorpa with her essence.
he found himself unbalanced by the surging of sheer affection which spiraled goldline out to all of his limbs and arteries. "hjerte," he gave in translation, covering for the dozenth time her touch with his own. his voice held the roughened smoke of his own emotion, which he sought to dispel by kissing ayovi. his turn. "mund," mouth, demonstrating another time with deliberate slowness.
Her eyes drift close, melting into the slow opened warmth that breathes sweetness upon her lips. “Mund,” she murmurs, smiling, then weds their lips again with savoring slowness. “Kiss.” Soft licks part his darkened maw, tongue slipping over teeth to graze with his own. “Tongue.” The huntress grins.
Ayovi pulls back to bring his face into view, all attention given to the northman’s hearth-fire eyes. For a long moment she hesitates, blue eyes searching, chasing sounds until all she hears is her heartbeat and his breath. “Love,” she names.
“I love you, Skorpa,” and that was it. All that mattered.
Everything there was to say.
Ayovi pulls back to bring his face into view, all attention given to the northman’s hearth-fire eyes. For a long moment she hesitates, blue eyes searching, chasing sounds until all she hears is her heartbeat and his breath. “Love,” she names.
“I love you, Skorpa,” and that was it. All that mattered.
Everything there was to say.
February 17, 2025, 03:25 PM
skorpa found himself readied a third time, laughing softly into ayovi's mouth as she translated more words for him. she was fair and wonderful against his chest; he did not think he would ever tire of bearing his rainwater a very great admiration.
sværd-dane had not dwelt in thought upon children. her scent had assured that they would come, therefore skorpa was free to devour each day entire with ayovi, living only in their present.
he did not need to be told what her murmured words said, and on impulse he raised limb to trace the fine shape of her jawline with his claw, cupping the warmth of her cheekbone in his palm.
heart race; his eyes stung again with that sordidly unknown, incomprehensible emotion. he did not take its name nor its meaning, but ayovi spoke such life into them that for a moment the battle-scarred warrior felt fear.
to be husband of settlehearth, to be father, it required more stability than skorpa had ever given or experienced.
his other arm embraced her tight against him. "jeg elsker dig, ayovi." what else could such a sensation be but what they named it now? "jeg vil vise dig, at jeg kan blive en bedre mand," skorpa went on, besotted with feeling. even if she did not understand his words, the look in his eye left nothing to be misconstrued: a true glimpse of the frightened, eager soul he had become in such a frightfully short time.
"jeg vil være dig værdig," and he began to caress her softly again, wanting a slow meander for them both this time, as the gravity of what they had shared began to fall in metershower around skorpa's head.
His speech is rolling and heavy and strange and the most lovely thing she’d ever heard. She cannot comprehend a word he says, and yet in the truest annals of herself she understands all of it. And now she must concentrate on breathing in and out and not think so deeply of what they’d just spoken to one another or he'll render her entirely to water.
Though her eyes gloss wet with too much emotion, she smiles against his lips, finding him more attractive and livelier than ever, for love had gilded her with its bewildering magic.
Straying, she nuzzles Skorpa's velvet fur just beneath his ear, feeling safe and roused within the arms of the man she loved. His lips are next, kissing sensually slow because she can, lingering over each lip because she cannot stop herself.
Skorpa murmurs more words. Sentences that invoke intimacy.
Ayovi loves listening to his thoughts, even if she cannot parse them. With every one she hears, she falls for him more deeply. It is the best kind of falling.
She hopes it will never end.
Though her eyes gloss wet with too much emotion, she smiles against his lips, finding him more attractive and livelier than ever, for love had gilded her with its bewildering magic.
Straying, she nuzzles Skorpa's velvet fur just beneath his ear, feeling safe and roused within the arms of the man she loved. His lips are next, kissing sensually slow because she can, lingering over each lip because she cannot stop herself.
Skorpa murmurs more words. Sentences that invoke intimacy.
Ayovi loves listening to his thoughts, even if she cannot parse them. With every one she hears, she falls for him more deeply. It is the best kind of falling.
She hopes it will never end.
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