Love is stupefying.
At least, that is how the woman of Nova feels when she goes about her day and finds herself smiling at nothing at all in particular. There are always immaterial times when she thinks of @Skorpa; like when she’s down in the valley harvesting herbs and reliving in imaginative detail their evenings from the night before.
Quite possibly, she is a crazed creature.
On other days, she’s able to summon her wits. The project of most import is their winter home. By now, Ayovi has developed a sort of concentrated slave to soften the years of blood, scat, and other foul things from the interior of their den. She smothers the solution with her paws and watches as the cave’s history is revealed in delicate detail. Strata planes of various color leap to life and Ayovi imagines that each one is a year upon the mountain. Changes in weather and inhabitants write the very lore of their home upon granitic walls. So greatly do their colors and patterns vary.
When as far as she can reach is scoured and chipped and swabbed of grime, the floors must again be cleansed. This time stalks of wildmint roll beneath her paws and other herbs are bunched into small alcoves along the ceiling to release fresh scents. Her work is pristine. If the hunters of Ashēer had given her anything, it was endurance.
But now this sanctity is threatened by her husband; the northman with a permanently soiled coat and bloodied grin. The evening turns dove into raptor and there she posts beneath the threshold of their home, blocking entry to the man in tarnished pelts. The sight of him ignites craving, but the smell speaks of something else entirely.
“No,” Ayovi enforces with teeth, “I have not spent four days entire cleaning this place for you to waltz in and destroy it with your fifth. Bathe. You are barred entry until you do so.”
The indigo eyes glint. She plants herself at their foyer and hikes high a demure muzzle.
At least, that is how the woman of Nova feels when she goes about her day and finds herself smiling at nothing at all in particular. There are always immaterial times when she thinks of @Skorpa; like when she’s down in the valley harvesting herbs and reliving in imaginative detail their evenings from the night before.
Quite possibly, she is a crazed creature.
On other days, she’s able to summon her wits. The project of most import is their winter home. By now, Ayovi has developed a sort of concentrated slave to soften the years of blood, scat, and other foul things from the interior of their den. She smothers the solution with her paws and watches as the cave’s history is revealed in delicate detail. Strata planes of various color leap to life and Ayovi imagines that each one is a year upon the mountain. Changes in weather and inhabitants write the very lore of their home upon granitic walls. So greatly do their colors and patterns vary.
When as far as she can reach is scoured and chipped and swabbed of grime, the floors must again be cleansed. This time stalks of wildmint roll beneath her paws and other herbs are bunched into small alcoves along the ceiling to release fresh scents. Her work is pristine. If the hunters of Ashēer had given her anything, it was endurance.
But now this sanctity is threatened by her husband; the northman with a permanently soiled coat and bloodied grin. The evening turns dove into raptor and there she posts beneath the threshold of their home, blocking entry to the man in tarnished pelts. The sight of him ignites craving, but the smell speaks of something else entirely.
“No,” Ayovi enforces with teeth, “I have not spent four days entire cleaning this place for you to waltz in and destroy it with your fifth. Bathe. You are barred entry until you do so.”
The indigo eyes glint. She plants herself at their foyer and hikes high a demure muzzle.
February 17, 2025, 08:08 PM
new blood smeared over old, skorpa returning jubilant to the seed of their settlement with a haunch of elk. suspended by language barrier was any need to tell ayovi he had taken it off a coyote pack, retreating from some threat in the taiga to the foothills. they had surrendered their kill well enough, and he had dragged it through snow to 'clean' the meat.
skorpa expected to see ayovi at some task or another; he plainly was unprepared for how she stood upon threshold and barred entry.
he saw even the flash of her teeth and was bewildered anew until mind sorted her words. "bade?" he huffed. "vil du ikke lukke mig ind, før jeg har sprøjtet vand på mig selv?"
he was surprised and put out, and annoyed; skorpa squared his shoulders and glowered a bit at ayovi, though his eyes did not hold such a sting.
skorpa tried gently for the doorway, crooning softly at her as a suggestive light came to life in his face. such had always, always pleased her; he teased his wife at that lintel, seeking a kiss! seeking her relent. "luk mig ind, ayovi." she smelled wonderful, almost like the first warm breaths of spring; floral spice and stonework, a slender mason standing guard at her temple.
would she soften for him? his eyes said he would pleasure her until she forgot his bloody pelt. "jeg vil bade, når floderne er smeltet." it was too cold for such nonsense, and skorpa waited in near entitlement for her to at last smile and move aside.
Their impasse turns into a game of wills and Ayovi is ashamed how swiftly his touch sets a shiver through her.
“Don’t you dare,” she makes a face. This is her lot for choosing a wildman mate. Her husband might favor carnage to cloak his own scent on the hunt. Whatever the reasoning, his wife had made relative peace with the warpaint. It might be his dirt, but she was the one who liked to roll in it; to be covered in his brand. Though Ayovi is too ashamed to confess this, and certainly not now.
The moon is nearly full, the evening so clear she can see distant hills, their peaks crowned in snow. The little mountain creek is not far, and just deep enough to stamp his paws.
“Skorpa,” she gentles her voice, “at least your feet,” and noses at a heel. “I have something to show you.”
“Don’t you dare,” she makes a face. This is her lot for choosing a wildman mate. Her husband might favor carnage to cloak his own scent on the hunt. Whatever the reasoning, his wife had made relative peace with the warpaint. It might be his dirt, but she was the one who liked to roll in it; to be covered in his brand. Though Ayovi is too ashamed to confess this, and certainly not now.
The moon is nearly full, the evening so clear she can see distant hills, their peaks crowned in snow. The little mountain creek is not far, and just deep enough to stamp his paws.
“Skorpa,” she gentles her voice, “at least your feet,” and noses at a heel. “I have something to show you.”
February 18, 2025, 12:50 PM
"ohoho!" skorpa laughed in a rigor of triumph! he made as if to grab her up against that filthied chest of his she was currently pretending to dislike. but now ayovi's voice carried a gravity, and he swept his ears forward.
she nudged him, and he was pleased to think that rainwater would attend him at the waterside. if his mate wished him to strip his protective layer months before he meant to do so, at least her pretty eyes should bear witness.
"okay. okay. jeg går!" skorpa laughed, then set off at a brisk step for the alpine rivulet which was still icy enough to drench him in unpleasant feeling. all for her, he decided.
A part of him relents, and yes, there is a certain smugness that overcomes the curve of Ayovi’s lips by result. But she is far more amazed they’d both forfeited their ideal in favor of common ground, upon which each would please the other. This, she thinks, must be a paradigm of love. These little settlements.
The huntress does not follow her husband to the creek. Rather, she turns about the den, by again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation and imagining what Skorpa might think. Will he treasure all the little unclothed details she so coveted? The flecks of mica that glitter like gold when caught by the moon’s light? Or the bedrock striations that form an intricate tapestry under foot?
Even if he does not so much care for the minute, Ayovi is certain his interest will pique in the gathering of ochre pigment she’d prepared wallside; a ground red substance made slick and bright with water.
Grinning, the huntress drags Skropa’s prize into the den, then dabs her wrists in sweet-smelling ointment. When the hunter returns, she thinks she will again make a scene— if only to earn more placating touches.
Instead, she steps aside for the man to cross the threshold to his claim, eyes watching; waiting.
The huntress does not follow her husband to the creek. Rather, she turns about the den, by again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation and imagining what Skorpa might think. Will he treasure all the little unclothed details she so coveted? The flecks of mica that glitter like gold when caught by the moon’s light? Or the bedrock striations that form an intricate tapestry under foot?
Even if he does not so much care for the minute, Ayovi is certain his interest will pique in the gathering of ochre pigment she’d prepared wallside; a ground red substance made slick and bright with water.
Grinning, the huntress drags Skropa’s prize into the den, then dabs her wrists in sweet-smelling ointment. When the hunter returns, she thinks she will again make a scene— if only to earn more placating touches.
Instead, she steps aside for the man to cross the threshold to his claim, eyes watching; waiting.
February 18, 2025, 03:06 PM
she did not come after all! skorpa stood a little forlorn, watching ayovi return to their den. but he had already made this promise of bathing, and gave a loud huff before he strode away.
the nearest stream was swollen with melt, ridden with pieces of ice which bumped along an equally frozen bank. skorpa scowled but began to scour for one of those few plants he did know: soapwort.
hardy and early-blooming, it formed a mist of pink along the bare land patchworking the streamside. he plucked up several clumps, and then with little preamble, began to strike and crush them against one of the large stones.
without dexterity, he was only able to obtain a little of the slippery liquid, dropping instead all the crushed plants into the frigid water. skorpa then immersed himself, hissing at the slap of shocking water, roaring when he surfaced again.
four times. four times he dipped under, and between each instance he clawed at himself, at underbelly and ears and flanks, using the vestiges of soapwort to frighten off any fleas. skorpa soaked in a sulk, eddies of dirt and grease spreading upon the stream.
when he had rinsed clean several times, when he felt naked and dissolved enough, the warrior returned, drying slowly in the wintry air.
he returned to find ayovi much more malleable; skorpa stepped close to see her work, to see the gradient of stone and its struck color. her fragrance filled the clean-scrubbed space as she stood framed against her hard work, and true to tell, the shimmering red brightened his face. "min kone har øje for skønhed," he murmured in awe, unsure of where first to look. and so she filled his eyes once more.
February 19, 2025, 02:34 PM
By all accounts, Skorpa was a rugged, squalid, offensive creature. He had strongly-marked features, some which once might have been striking, but none would call him that now. Only to Ayovi was he far superior to the most attractive of his sex; because she knew the heart which guided him was good. Though he lacked that noble mien of the Ashēeran hunt men, and he did not keep himself in any way tidy as Faust had.
Still; still he was the one who held his wife’s fascination. And who returned to her was a direwolf; tall and fearsome and seemingly covered in the starry sky as he padded slick and glistening into their home.
Ayovi stared.
It was the first time she’d seen him bare. He looked like a different man. Without his blood, he was softer, much younger. His eyes like molten gold shone deeper. He smelled wonderful, fresh, agreeable, and to crown the whole, she was smitten.
As he glances about the cavern her eyes never truly leave his face, and occasionally the huntress reaches out to touch him as if to reassure herself that it is truly he.
“Handsome,” Ayovi whispers and takes to grooming down his shoulders, ridding the tawny agouti of river-water. When the heaviness of his coat has gone, she directs their attention to the cave wall and crushed ochre paints which lay at their feet.
“Look here, wild man,” she grins, blotting a paw with pigment and smudging it across the smooth surface. With two rough flutes she creates a likeness of their mountain. “Bjerg.”
Now the monolith is canopied in claw-mark stars. “Stjerenberg.”
She draws away from the wall; a blank canvas awaiting the boldness of their art. “Every northern word you teach me, I will put on this wall. I wish to share your tongue, Skorpa. Your mund.”
Never again would he have the frustrations of that day in the Northwood.
Still; still he was the one who held his wife’s fascination. And who returned to her was a direwolf; tall and fearsome and seemingly covered in the starry sky as he padded slick and glistening into their home.
Ayovi stared.
It was the first time she’d seen him bare. He looked like a different man. Without his blood, he was softer, much younger. His eyes like molten gold shone deeper. He smelled wonderful, fresh, agreeable, and to crown the whole, she was smitten.
As he glances about the cavern her eyes never truly leave his face, and occasionally the huntress reaches out to touch him as if to reassure herself that it is truly he.
“Handsome,” Ayovi whispers and takes to grooming down his shoulders, ridding the tawny agouti of river-water. When the heaviness of his coat has gone, she directs their attention to the cave wall and crushed ochre paints which lay at their feet.
“Look here, wild man,” she grins, blotting a paw with pigment and smudging it across the smooth surface. With two rough flutes she creates a likeness of their mountain. “Bjerg.”
Now the monolith is canopied in claw-mark stars. “Stjerenberg.”
She draws away from the wall; a blank canvas awaiting the boldness of their art. “Every northern word you teach me, I will put on this wall. I wish to share your tongue, Skorpa. Your mund.”
Never again would he have the frustrations of that day in the Northwood.
February 19, 2025, 04:39 PM
had a woman ever gazed at him in such a way? skorpa wished to be enthralled by the newly exposed accentuations of their densite, but the open admiration with which ayovi regarded him held the man in almost shy silence.
there were always women who would accept a trade or future-offer; there were always drengr wanting to conceive more, and the bloodhaired skorpa had been in past more than willing to invite their rut.
ayovi's cheekbones gleamed with her look; the indigo eyes barred his attention to stray. no woman had ever traced him with her eyes, never made him feel warmly undressed; he responded to her touch with a smooth stroke of her pale hip, and his smile felt stupid for how tightly it clung to his mouth.
but now his stare widened for the wall, for the spread of color, for her declaration and his language fluted and beautiful in her own tones. his mund? for a moment the man did not understand, and then comprehension began to sunder his eyes to an unmanful moistening.
his words. she wanted the claw-marks to be for his tongue, and as skorpa faced the dazzling ochre which illustrated stjerneberg and the home they were creating.
tentatively he reached a broad palm and placed it into the ochre; skorpa stared at the blood-red upon his palm and took a breath.
between ayovi's shapes he etched awkwardly a single rune. "algiz," he murmured. "for, ah, strong," the man stumbled, not knowing how to express 'protection.' not yet.
skorpa did not draw more; he looked to ayovi and seemed to be drawing on all the limited words they shared; "is — good. make heart — make heart." no word for feeling, and so he only gently cupped her paw in his own and brought it against the cantering beat in his chest. "is lot — good. lot good, ayovi." the umber eyes glinted, and to first he showed her the smears upon his palm; "jord. rød jord."
between the ochred wall and to his wife he looked again, glowing with pleasure that at last they had bridged something new between them.
February 22, 2025, 01:45 PM
He takes her paw in his and Ayovi is instantly immersed in the lively shades of the man’s face; joy and vulnerability and the misting of sunset gaze which in turn bonds their lips for a kiss. Deep, lingering.
She imagines sex with this Skorpa— like making love to another version of him. She wanted her husband in all his seasons. Wanted to serve him as a priestess before the image of her god.
She follows his hand to the wall, though he is her distraction when his arm clutches about her. Blue eyes witness his first mark and she whispers the sounds beneath her own breath, only breaking them off to center all her attention on those burning eyes. “Nothing is stronger than me and you.”
With a smile and a sweeping arm she transposes every learned word onto the wall. “Nord. Vildoske. Regvand. Rod jord. Konae. Hjem.”
The resulting scene is winsome, mountains and rain peopled by bison and wolf, a husband beneath the longboat and a wife—
Ayovi’s paw hovers above the delineation. The belly is rounded to make space for four claw marks. An opposite paw trails down over her own flattened stomach. Nothing yet to see— but everything to feel.
“How do you say it in nord, Skorpa? Pregnant. Full.”
Her north man was a father.
She imagines sex with this Skorpa— like making love to another version of him. She wanted her husband in all his seasons. Wanted to serve him as a priestess before the image of her god.
She follows his hand to the wall, though he is her distraction when his arm clutches about her. Blue eyes witness his first mark and she whispers the sounds beneath her own breath, only breaking them off to center all her attention on those burning eyes. “Nothing is stronger than me and you.”
With a smile and a sweeping arm she transposes every learned word onto the wall. “Nord. Vildoske. Regvand. Rod jord. Konae. Hjem.”
The resulting scene is winsome, mountains and rain peopled by bison and wolf, a husband beneath the longboat and a wife—
Ayovi’s paw hovers above the delineation. The belly is rounded to make space for four claw marks. An opposite paw trails down over her own flattened stomach. Nothing yet to see— but everything to feel.
“How do you say it in nord, Skorpa? Pregnant. Full.”
Her north man was a father.
February 22, 2025, 03:08 PM
each time she spoke in northern tongue, something lapsed inside skorpa, some ivy-clad wall crumbling to graceful stone. he stared in rapture at the shapes which formed beneath her artistic hands, admiring ayovi anew for her ability to create.
such an ability was not only preserved in ochre.
each time his mate said his name, skorpa's ears swept in sharp attention, and he had begun to identify the finer nuances between each way she uttered it.
for him, ayovi drew the words as she said them, and beside her the northman grew tense with surprise. he did not know why! why should he be surprised? and yet he was; skorpa, she asked, and he translated the one word most similiar; "fuld." full.
filled. "gravid." pregnant. he was sinking down now in wonder, down until his drying crown was nestled below her breastbone, against the taut flatness of her belly.
there he rested his touch, warm. emotion trembled his breath. the great mystery of women was so near to him, and ayovi thrummed with a primal glow. "jeg vil bede til Frigg om, at vores børn er sunde og raske."
when skorpa could etch it, in ochre: the rune fehu over the tiny quartet of claw-dots made by ayovi.
but not now; for now he only held her. held them.
February 22, 2025, 06:11 PM
(This post was last modified: February 22, 2025, 06:49 PM by Ayovi.)
<3
Love as duty, love as tradition. The Ashēeran know these things well. Love for itself is new, unexpected. They are bringing children into this life and her father would have commanded it happen only with a shaman’s blessing. But there are no eyes upon she and Skorpa, and Ayovi hears the faint echoes of the narrative she’d repeated to herself dwindle as he kneels to run his face along her belly. Between the haze of heat and the suddenness of their conception, she fears he might hesitate.
Yet even now, Skorpa does not falter. He never has. Only murmurs tenderly, holds her close. Time crawls to the sweetest standstill. Ayovi bends to sift a mouth over one crimson, fragrant ear.
She would have always adored her children. She loves them more because they are his.
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