Sunset Valley Harvesting

Don't hesitate to join Aspa, whether you are believers or non-believers, hehe!
TW - Gore

All the North quivered, taut with the expectation of war, a storm poised to break at any moment. The air was thick, heavy with the weight of unspoken dread— yet Aspa remained oblivious. The strange woman had set her mind, it seemed, on scouring the land of all lagomorphic life. In her wake, the earth was strewn with the lifeless forms of hares, rabbits, and their kin, each bereft of its head.

Yet there was no pleasure in it for her. No dark thrill, no cruel delight. She took no joy in the butchery, for this was no act of malice but of duty— the gods had spoken, and she had heeded their call.

Four severed heads dangled from her jaws, gripped by the tips of their soft ears. That would suffice for today; she could carry no more. With a sinuous motion, Aspa coiled upon herself, twisting in place before springing back onto her feet. Then, without a backward glance, she slipped down the plains, her path leading homeward.

the huntsman follows the scent of prey's blood through the windswept plains, tracking the faint disturbances in the grass, the signs of passage.
he does not expect the scene he finds!
a woman with jaws burdened by four severed heads. not wolves. not foes. rabbits. their small bodies discarded, their absence unnoticed by all but the gods. left as carrion, others would see, but no; their bodies might thusly feed the earth and flow back into the prey which feasted next.
at this, ulfric watches with ice. not seeking to disturb her, the man tails only quietly behind, the thud of dark paws upon earth muted by what snow and ice remained. winter fled like longship, and spring would come with full hearth.

Her ears flicked—a whisper from the gods, no doubt. She turned abruptly, veering from her course to intercept the path of the tall, brown-skinned man.

Without the slightest ceremony, she breached his space, studying him with sharp, unrelenting scrutiny. What did the gods whisper? Nothing. They remained silent.

En kriger! she proclaimed, casting her findings to the ground for the sake of the conversation. Godt! Du vil hjælpe mig. Her voice was assured, her restless energy palpable as her milky eye traced every sinew of muscle and every strand of fur upon the stranger’s form.

Guderne tier… Du er en mand fuld af mystik. she wondered aloud. At last, she nudged his broad shoulder with a light but insistent headbutt, as if to urge him into motion, before setting off with a fluid stride, head low—like a hunter on the prowl.

he had not been expecting the abrupt turn of events. she wheels around, and suddenly she is upon him. within his space, one eye searching him with a hunger. ulfric feels the beginning of bristling hackles, but forces himself to still.
it is only slight the way his head pushes backwards into his neck.
no, he interjects, i am no warrior. i'm only a huntsman. he corrects. he had been raised one, yes—but it was the life of a pacifist he led now. he was a huntsman—nothing more.
nothing less.
he moves, however, at her insistence. for some reason, unwilling to deny her the help she insisted upon. perhaps it was how she cited the gods; ulfric had never been a man to resist them. he feels the glint of a shining, freshly ground axe steering him down the path.
who are you? he asks, turning halfway as he walks to force a better look of her.

En jægers?

She refused. First, a chuckle, then a snap of her jaws in the wind.

En kriger, der skjuler sig under en jægers kappe. Hvad løber du fra? she asked, laughing as she traversed the plain alongside her new assistant for the day.

Jeg er Aspa. Guderne hvisker, jeg lytter. she introduced herself as she liked to do. Men for dig hvisker de ikke. She added, glancing over her shoulder to meet the warrior's gaze—whether he acknowledged it or not, a warrior he was.

Nogle gange er det en god ting, nogle gange en dårlig ting... she clarified, her stride swift, her gaze once more fixed upon the horizon.

ulfric does not answer at first. his ears twitch at the snap of her teeth, the certainty in her voice. a warrior, hiding beneath a hunter’s cloak. his eyes betray nothing.
his jaw tightens. "i hide from nothing," he says, rough, certain. but she laughs like she does not believe him.
aspa. she names herself without hesitation, speaks of gods and whispers, of messages meant for some but not for him. ulfric's brows knit. "isn't that encouraging?" he mutters coarsely.
his stride lengthens, falling into pace beside her. "what is it they whisper to you now?"

Du skjuler dig for dig selv, så, she had concluded, laughing, her lips curling to reveal her slightly yellowed fangs. Yet the so-called hunter appeared curious, or perhaps even doubtful.

Hvorfor vil du kende deres hvisken? She halted abruptly, turning suddenly to face the tall man. Aspa rose on her legs, pressing her front paws against the broad chest of the tall brown man, thus lifting her gaze to meet his.

Hmmm… She pondered. Og hvad hvis jeg sagde, at de ønsker, du skal hjælpe mig? She had let out a low chuckle before returning to the ground and continuing on her way.

she questions him. he looks upon her sharply, a bristle about the fur that crowns his neck. what? he asks, brows knitting. who would not want to know? he rebutts.
she speaks yet again, and ulfric exhales, a slow breath through his nose. choosing to ignore the beginning strands of annoyance.
"then i would ask—help with what?" he had a right to know, did he not?
she rises against him, small but bold, pressing paws to his chest. he does not move, does not flinch, only watches, blue eyes sharp, flashing once over her face. he does not shy away, nor from her or the odd, milky eye that peers curiously into his soul.
"if the gods ask, i do not refuse." a truth, simple and certain, expelled with a blow of breath.
she laughs, drops back to the earth, strides ahead as if his answer was expected. he follows with a flick of his tail.

Who would not want to know?
De, der allerede ved, hvem de er, she teased, a smile lingering on her lips, her voice almost musical. But for the moment, she would leave him be with that. Aspa knew well that toying with the patience of northern men could be as perilous as dancing with a grizzly.

Ærligt talt, jeg har brug for hende til min hytte. Guderne har intet med det at gøre, she confessed, amusement in her tone. Så du har ret til at nægte! Guderne vil ikke bebrejde dig. Men de holder øje... she clarified, nonetheless.

En skam, jæger... she pressed, her voice deliberate. Jeg har ikke længere brug for dine færdigheder som fanger. Men måske dine sporingsfærdigheder... she mused, her pace slowing.

Kender du noget til planter? she asked him, more serious now, her gaze locking with his.

"yes." the answer comes without thought, without hesitation. "my mother taught me. she said a woman’s skills would be as helpful to me as a man’s would." a detail he did not know why he shared.
it had been long since he last thought of her—not because he had forgotten, but because he had learned to live without her. still, the lessons remained, woven into his bones. she had known the land well, the way the roots twisted beneath the earth, the plants that healed, the ones that killed. ulfric had listened. had learned. had carried it with him.
"you need a tracker?" he turns quizzical face to her, strides lengthening to bring himself to her side as she continues her waltz onwards. he is a skeptic; comes by it naturally.
she slows. he matches.
"tell me what you’re looking for."

En klog kvinde, din mor. She had nodded in agreement, reinforcing her words. Their footsteps had led them to the edge of Bracken Woods.

Jeg har brug for en sporhund, der kender planter, she confirmed, inhaling the scent of the trees before her, her claws grasping the thick bark of one, it bore the shape of a small bowl where she would place her gathering when the time was right. She set it gently on the ground.

Det ser ud til, at guderne har sat dig på min vej, She chuckled softly. Jeg har brug for visse planter... Jeg kan genkende dem ved synet, men min lugtesans... jeg kan ikke stole på den! she confessed, ironically.

Kender du duften af valmuer? Og af jimsonweed? she asked, turning toward him, her tail hanging between her legs, swaying gently from side to side. Jeg beder dig ikke om at røre ved disse planter, kun at finde dem for mig.

She added with emphasis, Rør dem ikke, under nogen omstændigheder. Jimsonweed, især.

bracken woods looms ahead, the scent of damp earth and bark thick in the air. he watches aspa place something against the tree, careful, precise. there is order to her movements, even in her madness.
then, her requests.
poppies. jimsonweed. dangerous plants, both of them. one for sleep, the other for sickness. he knows their scent, and the shape of their leaves.
"i know them." now, he watches her carefully. taking two long strides to close their distance and tower questioningly above her. "and i can find them. but first: what do you need them for?" grit now, in his voice.

Her tail had lashed through the air, a more sinister smile stretching her dark lips. Once again, she had risen to meet the brown man's gaze, her nose pressing against his, and had whispered softly:

Jeg kan ikke dræbe en mand, men disse planter kan. A low, mocking laugh escaped her. She had then descended to the earth, spinning like a serpent, before letting out a lighter laugh. Åh nej, kriger! Bekymr dig ikke. Jeg har brug for det for at tale med guderne, she confessed.

Jeg vil vise dig, hvis du ønsker det, men for nu... sæt den næse i arbejde! She waited for him to set off, the bark clenched between her teeth, so that she could follow and gather.

blue eyes do not waver. she laughs, twisting away, light and sharp all at once. his ear flicks. she has called him a warrior more than once now, though he has told her otherwise.
there comes a low noise, a grunt of indifference. stop calling me warrior.
he searches her as she goes, back turned, paws drifting with ease. and like a man, cannot help but to briefly admire—though it is fleeting. he searches for something beneath her mirth. half-truths, riddles—these things do not bother him—and yet his teeth grit. if she is lying, it will show in time.
his nose lowers to the earth, he draws in the scents that linger beneath damp leaves and thawing snow. the woods are rich with life—pine, wet bark, the musk of hidden prey. all good things—but not what he needs.
but then his breath draws deep, pulling in the faint, acrid note beneath the earthier smells. jimsonweed. still distant, but near enough now to follow. the northman lifts his head, blue eyes cutting through the trees.
"this way, witch." she was not the only one who could name call.

Words as sharp as his glacial gaze. Was this warrior, so seemingly cold, wanting to play games? Aspa had chuckled, following in his footsteps. He was undeniably skilled in the art of tracking, and, in addition, he had a knowledge of plants. The warrior—or hunter, if he so wished—was no liar.

The so-called witch had then matched his pace, her eyes searching for the red flowers of the poppy or the white ones of the jimsonweed. The latter soon unveiled themselves to her.

Fremragende! she had trotted forward, placing her bark on the ground, inspecting the plants, circling them, observing with intent. Dit hjerte kan lyve om, hvem du er, Jæger, men din næse ved sandheden! she had teased him, her voice light.

Kom ikke for tæt på. De kunne gå til hovedet på dig. She had begun to dig around, seeking to uproot the toxic plants. Precision was essential; their sap was undoubtedly the most dangerous. With great care, she had lifted a few plants, using the tips of her claws to push them into her bark.

The scent alone was enough to make her feel more nauseous than usual, but she appeared accustomed to it. For the time being, she would leave her harvest here—there was no need to risk carrying it for the remainder of her quest. She would return for it just before heading home.

Whooa! she had shaken herself off. Hurtigt, til valmuerne! She had trotted away, distancing herself from the jimsonweed.

Vis vejen!

his ear flicks at her laughter. light, teasing. she plays at games—ulfric does not remember the last he played.
"my nose does not lie. a huntsman, i told you." he remarks, while icy gaze lays content upon her. watching how carefully she lifts the plants, how her claws dig with precision, not recklessness. "but my heart?" his lip curls slightly, almost amused. you think that you know it? he asks, and he waits as she sets the plants aside, shaking off the weight of the task like it is nothing. then she is already moving, eager to get on.
ulfric exhales through his nose once. her energy is relentless.
"you rush like spring flood." a scoffing remark, but he moves, stepping past her, muzzle lifting to the air. poppies are sweeter, softer—not like the acrid sting of poison.
"this way." his paws press forward, carving a path.

She had followed the man without hesitation.
"but my heart? you think that you know it?"
Nej, men jeg ser det. she murmured, amusement lacing her voice. Måske stræber det efter at følge rytmen af karibuernes tordnende hove, men...

With a swift nudge of her muzzle, she gestured toward the scars etched across the man’s flanks.

Disse—disse er mærkerne efter et hjerte, der engang slog for krig! she proclaimed, laughter in her tone. Jeg har intet behov for guderne til at hviske det til mig – kun et enkelt øje. she added, her mockery as light as a passing breeze.

a roll of his eyes as she so wistfully speaks, proclaiming what she sees and simply not what she knows. ulfric spins towards her, halting at once, pinning her with arctic irises. old wounds, it is gruff now.
not a call of war.
after dismissing her observations, he turns fast. tracking yet again, nose ruffling through growth, both fresh and wilted by frost.
but now his mind wanders. the tension in his shoulders tightens. he has heard men say such things before: but his heart does not beat for war. not anymore.
"they are close." his paws shift forward; following the faint trail until a splash of red breaks against the green and brown of the woodland floor.
"here." a chuff and the pointed direction of his nose.

By the sheer force of circumstances, she had been compelled to halt abruptly, her ears poised, her lips subtly curved in a faint, almost imperceptible smile. Old wounds, but they remained open.
This was the limit of her dance with the bear, before it grew perilous. If he chose to turn away from the gods and his fate, so be it, but neither Aspa nor her gods would turn away from him...

At last, the man in brown had indicated the field where the poppies bloomed. Despite their vivid crimson, they blended with an uncanny grace into the plain. In silence, this time, she had drawn near and grasped their stems. The seeds and petals bore the properties she sought, but the stems were largely harmless, and handling them entailed little risk.

Jæger, she had called to him as she returned, winding through the tall grass like a serpent. Jeg takker dig for din hjælp! She had bowed her head.

Jeg har sat min hytte op længere nede, mellem bjerget og gletscheren, she had informed him. Skulle du nogensinde søge guderne, vil de være der med mig.

ulfric watches as she moves, quiet now, weaving through the tall grass with the grace of a doe.
i do not seek them, ulfric sees her briefly, looks into both eyes—unbothered, unfearing of the one milky. they find me when they wish.
old wounds, but they remained open.
his gaze does not leave her. but now if they call, i will know where to go.
with that, the huntsman turns to depart.

exit ulfric <3 we will have to write more of this duo!

She had smiled, amused, before returning to her gathering, now that everything was in place for her hut to be built properly...

Thank you so much, that was an amazing thread! I love the dynamic between these two ❤️