Duskfire Glacier Trouble in the Stepstones

AW! Tag for mention <3 : Backdated to 3 days

the sky split pale above the glacier’s crown, a sheet of light stretched thin across the peaks. faust stood still for a moment, the cold gnawing at the edges of his fur, before he turned from the hollow where he had last seen @Tikigak — belly low to the earth, preparing to dig her first den into the snow-soft cradle of the mountain.
he had not said much. didn’t need to. she was carving something into the stone now — a place to bear what would come. their future, brutal and certain.
his steps were quiet as he left her to it, broad paws pressed firm into frost, the scent of blood and thawed pine whispering from the cliffs. with each breath, the air sharpened in his lungs, filled with the silence of a place that would soon know war.
his path carved northward — to the edge, where darukaal’s shadow grew faint and strange scent had begun to stir. here, where the ice cut deepest and the wind sang with teeth, faust prowled. the kaan, alone with the thoughts that never spoke.
the snow had not yet been broken. but the wind carried something… unfamiliar.

---

ᚦ — like he said, he comes. now with @Anoré in tow. and she had not seemed pleased when he mentioned a detour, but draugr was nothing if not a man of his word.
and he was hungry. he was expecting the meats promised. trudging now up the side of the glacier, working way around the thawing lake, paws moving with ease over slushy snowmelt.
sharing a knowing glance, and grin, with the pale woman at his side as he leads her within. it is eventually they find the kaan, standing midnight within the thickening snow of his territory. draugr bellows once to announce his presence from behind, and then looking eagerly to see if he has spooked the man at all.
ég kem, faust! með konu. ég fékk ekki að draga blóð af manni þínum. hann var hvergi nálægt og ég fann hana fara af tindnum. synd, já? mm. sama.

he did not turn at the bellow, only shifted slightly, enough to catch the two shapes approaching from behind—draugr, wide-shouldered and grinning, and the white woman beside him.
white. too white.
his jaw clenched tighter. his breath fogged the air. he knew her. didn’t need words or scent or confirmation. she was the shape of something half-buried in his blood. his father’s woman.
he didn’t greet her. didn’t even look long. one glance was enough.
instead, his gaze slid to draugr, and it stayed there. he was all iron and frost, but steadier now than he had been in moons. his voice came low and flat.
you came.
there was something in it, even stripped of feeling—weight, maybe. a measure. and when the man spoke of blood not drawn, faust gave a slow nod, no judgment, just acknowledgment.
he gestured, one flick of his muzzle. meat’s waiting.
his gaze flicked once more to the woman. not a greeting. not interest. just recognition.
then, to draugr again.
congratulations. the word was sanded down, but not false. she yours?

anoré stood as she always had—with chin level and broad shoulders rolled back. 
and she knew what he saw, what name he wore. the stench of smoke, pine pitch, and smoldering embers heavy on his throat. 
he was all cold and dark and brooding as his father was, with flecks of sun-spark on his back. an ever-perfect conglomeration of infidelity. but she bore him no grievance. how could she?
she merely offered him an acknowledging glance.
"not any man's." she answered for herself, though more biting than she'd intended. not draugr's, not adonis'. 
"he gave an offer," a flick of an ear toward her traveling companion, "i come to watch. to listen." to decide.
there were no oaths nor promises. only her words—sharp, standing.

---

ᚦ — draugr's grin widens at faust's words, his amber gaze flickering with amusement. he shifts his weight, the snow crunching beneath his paws, and casts a sidelong glance at anoré. her sharp retort draws a low chuckle from his throat. he is yet oblivious to the indirect history between ally and possible wife, and unaware of how it may affect their alliance going forward.
"woman speaks true," voice thick with the accent of the north. "she yet decides if she will be jarl's wife or not."
then, suddenly, reaching to clap a thick paw over faust's shoulder. "let us feast and share stories, northman!" as faust goes to lead them further into the territory, to where meat and mead would await them for jovial celebration, the man falls into quiet thought for some time.
only when they arrive and his eyes lay upon the platter does he spark with such life again. you must have a wife somewhere. where is she? i demand she join us!

faust regarded the woman coolly, eyes narrowing only slightly at her sharp tongue. not any man’s—he didn’t press. didn’t need to. her presence said enough. she’d come of her own will, and that meant more than whatever claim draugr had half-joked into the snow.
his ear flicked, tension lingering for a breath, then passed. he said nothing further on her. instead, he gave a quiet grunt as draugr's paw landed heavy on his shoulder. he didn’t move under it, though the faintest twitch of a lip might’ve been mistaken for a smirk.
when the question of his wife arose, his gaze cut sharply to the glacier’s edge. his steps stilled. he had no wife. he had a mate.
then—low and commanding—he tipped back his head and loosed a howl across the wind.
calling her.
calling @Tikigak.
his mate.
the sound was not gentle. it held weight. it held purpose. it told the land who ruled here—and who would soon stand at his side.

In great lumbering strides did the bear of a wolf come, dirt stains clinging up to her forelimbs and helter skelter elsewhere upon her furs. Halfway into her dig, Tikigâk determined she was not satisfied with this location—she would scout out another, after a patrol to stretch her legs. The wildworn woman did not get very fall before the call of her mate rang—and Tikigâk answered swiftly with a long, low one of her own. 

She descended toward the crowd slowly, picking her way expertly as she moved the way in which only one born upon such heights would ever be capable of—with a deft sort of ease that revealed as much. Her gaze nakedly dressed down the two she did not know—one man as gigantic as herself and her mate covered in the hue of moonless nights and old bloodspill, and he had found the missing moon in the she-wolf alongside him. Silverstone and craterdark, her smaller stature (in comparison to those around her) did not deceive Tikigâk who noted well the lean muscle, the sharp strength they carried. The scars were noted, and Tikigâk wondered if those on her hindquarters had gone down deep to muscle to effect movement. 

Proudly did Tikigâk move toward the wolves, now on level ground, her head and tail held aloft in a show of her place. Her gaze did not leave them as she stepped alongside her mate, pressing her own shoulder solidly against his own for a moment before she stepped toward the two strangers to exchange scents with them in the way of the wolf. 

If these were enemies, there would already be blood. But who stood upon Darukaal soil? They smelled unfamiliar to her. One ear back turned toward her mate, the other remained alternated its position upon the others and the wilderness, listening.

the earth answers faust's call and she watches the wild-woman descend from the outcrops and join his side.
her steps are heavy, but sure. grounded. a woman rooted in her land, her title, and her mate.
when she comes close, scents are passed, and anoré meets it with a stillness before returning the same gesture.
today was an offering of equals. and for that, she offers a dip of her crown in recognition.
they were guests in their home. while she may not be one for pleasantries, for this, she could bend.
"anoré." she says in the common tongue.
if faust meets her eyes, she'd only hold it for a brief moment. he knew, as she did, the first-name winterhelm had given her.
her attention, sharp with interest, fixates upon both of them. they came to feast, share stories, and laugh. then so they shall.
"speak to me of darukaal."

---

ᚦ — a mighty, mighty woman... he expected no less of a man so similar to himself. draugr is careful of where his eyes trail upon her, noting the strength that filled her shoulders, the powerful swagger that rode the gait of the dark-pelted she-wolf.
there was a striking difference in both women—each no less strong by their own right. draugr hums his approval, sharing eyes with faust once, before he too settles in. he is not shy as he helps himself to what has been arranged; picking for himself a nice cut of meat, leaning to tear a voracious bite from it.
delegating himself to finish his meal while faust speaks to them of his pack and his people. paying no mind, only a twitch of his ear, when anore introduces herself by the new handle she had chosen. it confused him, at first, but he knew the purpose in it. to shed one life to begin anew.
yes, yes. gravel voice spits in between chews. i would know of you. what else can he say that she has not said for him? prideful chuckle then.

he tilted his head, watching tikigâk's approach, feeling the warmth of her press against his side. her touch grounded him in a way that words could never do. faust’s lips twitched into something faintly resembling a smile as he met her gaze.
we hunt and fight, claim what is ours, and protect what we’ve built. darukaal was born from blood and claw, from wolves like us. a people made by their choices—strong, unforgiving, loyal to those who prove themselves. we are made by our battles and the kin we fight beside.
his eyes flicked to anore for a moment, her stillness giving way to something deeper, more personal. there are no strangers here. darukaal is a family bound by survival.
he let that hang in the air for a moment, before he glanced at draugr, taking another bite of meat. we fight as one, we feast as one, and we remember the blood spilled for this place.
the words were straightforward, simple, but heavy with the weight of their meaning. faust’s gaze hardened slightly, his posture more commanding now as he let the message settle. we welcome you, but remember what it is to fight alongside darukaal. our strength lies in unity. we claim the land, and we protect it.
with that, he leaned back slightly, his eyes tracing the terrain beyond. what of your own claim in the south?

The two strangers permit her nearness as she investigates their scents. Both smell as healthy as they look. That the she-wolf before her went by any other name she did not know, nor learn—Tikigâk says to her in quiet answer, Tikigâk. Names—a thing also like wind. First she had been Atuasiq, then something else before she was called Tikigâk. She might yet acquire another name—time would tell. 

But Tikigâk sees what is shown to her, and she sees that the woman before her is wise, not at all arrogant for the strength that she wielded. And with that, Tikigâk immediately determined she enjoyed the company of this woman—a woman who knew her strength, but also how to keep her head. 

A woman who knew how to survive.

The male eats as her mate speaks. Tikigâk observes their features for reactions, listening on in her stalwart and stony silence. She moves next to her mate once more, curious now to hear of their claim.

anoré listens.
she listens as draugr chews noisily, as faust speaks with pride, and as the woman called tikigâk settles by her mate like the sea returning to shore. no strangers here, the blonde-flecked man says. she does not avoid his gaze.
but when the last of his words fall quiet and the air fills once more with fire-smoke and the distant calls of nightbirds, she speaks, "i have not yet seen the stone circle," she admits, "but draugr tells me of his desires. the land he seeks is old. and it tests. warhall warriors will bleed for it. bow before it. and they will rise, shaped by roots, birthright, and bone." her voice carries, as strong and steady and sure as the thunder in odin's sky.
days before, she found such a thing to be a child's dream. to build in the old-ways. but now, with draugr at her side and adonis' mirror before her, it suddenly does not feel so impossible.
she lifts her chin, "you say darukaal stands for unity." a curt nod, "then may it stand tall. and may the south be its resolve." for what is unity, if not carried forward by will?

ᚦ — he tears meat, gnashes sinew. chews with the sound of grinding stone, swallowing down blood and marrow as one forged for war should. his eyes flick between them all—kaarl faust, who speaks with fire, with steel; tikigâk, who watches like a sentinel; and anoré, who names his vision aloud with the voice of seiðkona and shieldmaiden both.

she speaks truth. a low grunt, words weighted like hammerfall. stone er old. it test who come. it break men who kneel not. but it build warriors. warriors like us.

he looks to faust then, eyes sharp beneath furrowed brow. you say blood built your home. ja. same with mine. stone er no gift. it is taken. earned. bled for. a pause. his head lifts, chest swelling, breath drawn like bellows before a forge.

his gaze passes between mate and ally. a scarred smile, tooth-flashing, crooked with something old. warhall stands. strong, but not tall yet. ef the gods do not spit on us first.

and to faust, a quiet hum, half-growled. i like you. you give word, i send sword. then one day you send daughter and draugrsson make her seiðkona?

faust listened, stone-faced beneath the weight of their words. the night pressed close, thick with pine, blood, and smoke. beside him, tikigâk stood silent but sure, her presence grounding—his anchor as much as his blade.
his eyes lingered on anoré first. that voice—he remembered it dimly, not from battle, but from halls where songs once echoed. blood of the north, woman of old ways. she'd walked the same halls as his father. he gave a short, low grunt of acknowledgment. not warmth, but memory. then see it, he said simply. see what he builds.
to draugr, his gaze hardened—not from doubt, but from clarity. the man ate like a god made flesh: one that bled, took, endured. a part of him admired it. a greater part remained wary. not of his strength, but of what such men often demanded in return.
still, the words struck truth.
you bleed for stone, faust said, voice low, like a blade drawn slow from its sheath. i bled for glacier. i bled for bone. darukaal is what rose from it. a breath.
he looked to tikigâk briefly. her future heavy in his mind.
my word is law, he added, turning back to draugr. then warhall and darukaal stand. not against each other, but beside.
then a pause—long and cold as the wind that wound through the trees.
but if you want one of my daughters, draugr, the ghost of a smirk tugged at his mouth, you’ll have to come speak with her mother first.

Tikigâk listened on even still. Strange, this talk of alliances—it had never been her own way. Tartok had aligned only with itself—its distance from itself intentional, so as to not compete for resources. When it came to war, it was only to acquire more land—for itself, as to feed only their own mouths. No righteous causes, no protectors of any but their chosen family. 

Tartok was still instilled in her. Faust was this—family she had chosen. And so she walked this path with him, learning the way. Feeling her way through it. While she could not help but wonder at the point of such an alliance, of a need for any more swords beyond their own capable ones—life had taught him different lessons. She was not unwilling to see it through to find that answer.

The woman named the man Draugr, as she informs of what they two sought to build. Warhall. She could hear well their shared devotion to it. Their pride. It is pride her mate shared, in what he had made—Tikigâk stands tall beside him, her gaze turning to him as he looks upon her. The unflinching gaze of Tikigâk was resolute: she would bleed with him, now. For Darukaal.  

Slowly does she turn to the man as he speaks then of a daughter. Daughter of Faust—daughter of hers, then. Tikigâk has no love yet for those not yet born, and so she is not offended by the statement he makes. An ear twitches. Tikigâk lets the silence stretch. She cannot see so far into the future. She has not the imagination to craft any pretty images of it. 

So she speaks only to what she knows. They must choose it themselves. One of our blood cannot be sent. Cannot be forced or made or convinced, she rumbled, tail stiff behind her. Tikigâk did not say this to insult, but to inform; she and her mate were two forces that had collided together as they faced the path their lives would lead. Side by side, they had seen their paths merge—and so they walked it together, now. 

But she could not have forced her mate down this path. Nor could he have forced her. They two were both strong willed, and perhaps stubborn—staunch to their ways. What brought them together was greater than that—wilder, older, innate instinct that presented itself and called them together. 

Neither bent, neither broke—with their union, they built. 

She looks even still to the man, tail swaying a slow beat behind her. A relationship seems to matter to Faust, with this wolf before her. Blood, bone, spire and chilling snow—whatever their cubs were made of would be that and more. If there was a girl, Tikigâk rumbled in her low voice decisively: …but she will see your stones. Draugrsson would have the opportunity to make an effort, at the very least. 

And if he was anything like the battle-scarred Draugr, there was surely a chance a daughter of theirs might choose a life with them and stay—battle and blood called to the heart of Tikigâk, savage warrior that she was. Her mate, too, was no stranger to warfare. 

Who would their children become? Tikigâk did not know, and so could make no promises. Still—she did not doubt that they would be strong. That one would need to someday prove their worth, to stand at their side. 

And not knowing the final word that Draugr spoke, this was what Tikigâk assumed—that Draugr sought a mate for his son. That he saw the shared strength of herself and Faust, and knew as she did what would come of it. They two were forces to be reckoned with—what of the beasts they would rear? 

Not yet here, but already spoken of—already asked for. Mighty things.