Dawnlark Plains ☾ déix̲

looking to maybe meet/hunt with some strangers <3

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Winter was settling into the taiga. A thick lining of snow crunched underfoot as the moondancer trudged southwards, no doubt with @Faust, her shadowman, somewhere in tow. Even with the motions of her stomping, Dísal'eix̲ still carried herself with grace; with pride.
As the woman tilted her chin upwards, she caught the scent of deer, most certainly on a migrational path through the taiga as winter crept in. It was now that she was fuelled with a new vigor, head craned downwards so that he may pick up the scent of the herd, and scan the snowfall for hoof-tracks.
The moondancer was certain, though, that where there was a herd, there would be other hunters, such as herself. But this was not quite negative. Rather, she grew excited at the prospect, for not only would more jaws and noses and paws make this easier, but she also knew that those who hunted together typically 'stuck' together, and the prospect of meeting others made her heart grow and swell with warmth. She longed to make herself known in this world. To share the stories of her people and her past and her travels in the midst of friends, over a meal and beneath the night sky. The woman hummed.
But she refocused just as quickly, drawing on her inheritance, her lineage of snowhunters so that she may track this head, moving westwards. Dísa wanted space, in this moment. Space to prove herself. Space to invite in others. But she knew that Uktark would be close, and such did not make her unhappy at the slightest. Rather, she would cast a glance over her shoulder.
Ever checking for his presence.

uktark moved behind her in a silence that did not soften, only shifted. the quiet of a shadow keeping pace with its source. his paws sank deep into the snow, heavy where hers were light, but he left no hesitation in his wake. wherever she turned, he adjusted. wherever she pressed forward, he followed, a dark constant threaded through the white expanse.
when her head lifted to scent the deer, he watched the lift of her shoulders, the hum that rippled through her. he did not close the distance, but neither did he drift far. his presence was a taut line drawn between them. unspoken, unbreakable.
each time she drifted ahead, carving purpose through the drifts, he slid along her flank’s blind spot, adjusting to keep her framed within his sight. he absorbed the cold, the wind, the muted crush of winter, taking the brunt of it so she would not.
she veered west. he shifted with her.
she stretched out her stride. he lengthened his own.
she wanted space. he gave it. but never enough to lose her.
her glance over her shoulder met him every time:
a sentinel built of glacier and bone.

turning your hunt thread into a reunion one for like 5 seconds :P

the days waned since he had left morwenna’s side. painstaking, with the constant urge to turn back and bring himself right back to her.

how he worried over her. the lanzadoii shit had reduced her to a mere shell of the woman she had been only a year ago, and the crownore fretted to leave her alone.

but at the cost of not sullying her with his manful pity, he went. and loyal, ever loyal, undyingly loyal, he searched for her daughter. sired by the man who he loathed most, but blackfell would undo that. he would scrub her of her father’s sins.

that was the noble thing to do. for he was not barbaric. easy, it would be, to kill the child and say that he had found her dead. but he could never betray morwenna in that way.

so he walks. searching high over mountain plane and through the valleys of the taiga to which he returns, nose to the sky. the raven circling overhead, croaking vocal cues every mile to the black beast that lurked below. and this next one captures his attention unlike the others had.

and then what he scents in the air sends blackfell rigid, for it is unmistakable. and the northman moves, legs carrying him through plows of snow, cloud bursts that fly into the wind.

when he is close, blackfell slows. heavy breathing and a stoic composure, those muted footfalls of his ringing dead as the valley opens up. and in the distance he sees him, alongside a pale woman he nearly mistakes for the cunt of nova peak.

there blackfell is a dark silhouette on the horizon, framed by the raven that flutters down and takes perch upon his broadside.

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Uktark was behind her, this much was now confirmed, but there was another, a black dot on the horizon, and so this time the moondancer made a full turn, tail wagging behind her. It was now that she trotted towards the figure, being intercepted halfway by the presence of the shadowman. With a careful tone, she gestured towards the stranger, and asked Uktark: Do you know him? Cam her voice, carried in a low whisper.
She wanted to return to the scent of the elk. To continue with her hunt, but nonetheless, the woman was curious. The stranger stared as if he knew them. Surely studious, if only she could catch his gaze. She flicked her tail against Uktark's chest and moved to close the distance, offering an echoing chuff so that she may greet the man before closing a gap that she may not have wanted shut in the first place. Wary, though, with the warmth of the man beside her, confident in her swan-like stride. Tail flagging high behind her.
When she was within earshot, she would call a greeting in her native tongue, if only to test the waters. I see you, she spoke. And then, in common, she gave: We come peacefully, should you mean no harm, should you mean no harm carrying the weight of her words. She wore a kind smile upon her face, though something vicious raged behind her eyes. Something looking for an excuse. She kept a respectable space between herself and the stranger.
She did not know, yet, that there was a connection between the one before them and the one beside her. Would soon come to know, surely.

drag path

uktark stiffened before her words even finished leaving her tongue.
that scent—
old frost, bloodline, iron and storm—
it struck him like a blow to the ribs.
he knew it. he knew it he knew it he knew it.
his breath hitched, a sharp, guttural drag through his nostrils as blackfell’s silhouette carved itself out of the horizon. the raven. the posture. the weight of his presence, unmistakable even across the white sweep of the taiga.
his moondancer’s whisper brushed him, but he barely heard it.
uktark’s gaze stayed locked ahead, pupils blown wide, the world narrowing to a single point.
when she flicked her tail against his chest, he leaned forward—nose grazing her temple in a fleeting touch that looked almost like a kiss, but carried something else behind it: a promise.
and then he ran.
aheavy, glacier-born sprint, snow exploding beneath him as he tore across the valley, ignoring her greeting, ignoring the careful distance she held. the taiga blurred. breath steamed from his jaws. the only thing that existed was the dark figure coming closer, closer—
and when he reached him, uktark did not slow.
he slammed into blackfell, chest meeting chest, weight meeting weight— an impact that was not aggression but the brutal force of reunion, a warrior’s embrace built from seasons of loss and silence.
his muzzle pressed into blackfell’s ruff, breath harsh, body trembling once before he stilled.
only then did he speak, voice ragged, quiet, a single word cracked open from something deep:
brother.

the woman speaks, but her words are lost upon the ears.

he knows only the singular existence of him. he sees only the way he is charged, and blackfell's limbs lock in place. as if made to hold the weight of his brother, the man who comes barreling towards him with a glee that is almost pup-like.

he meets him with the same vigor, and the raven squawks in brief shock; stray feathers sent flying when he takes to the skies to avoid a premature death, squashed under two beasts.

they collide in the way only two warriors can, but it is not with axes raised nor a song of war upon their tongues. it is with love; blackfell's strength meeting faust's, with arms wrapping in bear hug as they crash. he is lifted upon his back legs as they tangle, chests two war drums that beat in violent cadence.

my brother, blackfell speaks back to him, nose heavy upon his ear. they part rather unceremoniously, but it is not for long as he reaches to press his forehead in a touch to his. breath fogging, clouding around them in hefty spirals and sides heaving with the effort it takes to live.

you stink the same, bastard.

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Her words were not regarded, but even she herself had no time to think on such a thing before the shadows came crashing together. For a moment, she felt a breath of panic, watching Uktark crash into the stranger. But it is just as quickly that she recognised this: the return home after a long march, following the caribou, she pulled from her memory. This must have been something like that. And so she smiled, and allowed the pair the necessary space.
If she got a chance to, the moondancer, would angle a faint nod towards the man swathed in varying shades of night, undoubtedly friendly in her mannerisms, happy to watch from afar as her tail swayed low by her hocks.
She would come if summoned. She would stay if told to sit-put. She would listen to whatever her shadowman had to say, and would follow wherever he led, not by force, but because that was what her heart called for.

blackfell’s embrace settled into him like an old mantle reclaimed, one he had not realized he’d missed until it was wrapped around him again.
when they parted, steam curling from their bodies in heavy spirals, uktark’s eyes flicked over blackfell’s shoulder—
searching.
and finding her.
the moondancer stood where he had left her, bright as winter moonfall against the taiga. his gaze held hers for a brief moment, summoning her without a word: come. be beside me.
welcomed, woven into the gravity of his voice even in silence.
when she moved, he turned back to blackfell, their foreheads still nearly touching.
the faint snort he gave held something dangerous, fond, familiar.
you reek, he muttered, gravelled, almost a growl of affection. same as always.
snow clung to the thick fur along his shoulders, the momentum of their crashing reunion still vibrating faintly through him as he took the measure of the man before him—the strength, the breath, the presence.
and then the question cut through, low and direct.
where is gjalla?
uktark’s stare sharpened, something colder flickering beneath it.
a brother reunited, yes—
but also a man bracing for whatever truth blackfell carried back from the world he’d walked alone.

when the woman approaches, blackfell looks to her. acknowledges her with a stiff dip of his head, but most of his attention remains fixed upon faust. 

he does not know the dynamic of these two, but regardless, blackfell would give his brother no reason to think him a threat. he never had been, and never would be. 

and the mention of gjalla certainly visibly sits unwell with him. his lip twitches, agitation present; ears pulling sideways, the fur along his thick shoulders bristling with a bitter, bubbling resentment. 

gone.

blackfell's one remaining crimson eye falls quietly upon faust where their gaze remains level and even. the other milky, cold, unfeeling; the vision long faded, the trauma of the stag's antler when he first arrived in saatsine having caught up to him finally. he rasps: and if gjalla knows what is best for her, it will remain so. 

once blackfell's heart hardened and turned to coal, it could not be healed, nor restored. that is how it had always been, and would always be. as blackfell shifts upon his paws and redistrubutes his weight, the raven perches once more, this time upon the ruff of silver fur between thick shoulder blades. head cocking, those red beady eyes staring in the direction of moondancer. 

i am tracking morwenna's daughter now. he refuses to utter the damned name. those—fuckin' lanzadoii—took them. morwenna is back with me, but the girl is missing.

sorry for the delay !!

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When summoned, she would come, arriving in a wordless grace, warmth shimmering within her gaze as she looked upon the brothers. The stranger, brother of shadowman gave a rigid nod, and this made her smile widen, borne of amusement. But there is something more. Something that she was not quite aware of. A person. A life lived. A past that she did not know.
As he shared that he was looking for someone, a girl, the moondancer craned her head towards Uktark. We help? Asked her gaze, curious in the careful raise of a brow and the huff that left her nose. She would like to help. Felt that genre of urge within her. Knew, too, that it would provide reason for her to roam—or, rather, to venture with purpose, alongside her man.
The woman would not speak, yet. Watched, rather. Listened. There was a clear kindness within her, of which carefully cradled a fierce protection that she would extend towards this child that she did not know, should it be asked.
Ear flicked attentively.

uktark took the weight of blackfell’s words without flinching, though something in him tightened—jaw set, breath drawn slow through his nose. gone. the word rang like a struck bell. and the bitterness in his brother’s voice—cold, jagged, unmovable—he recognized it too well. it was grief’s older brother. it was the shape of a man who had already buried hope once and had no hands left to dig it up again.
he stepped closer, the brush of their shoulders a quiet apology, a shared mourning.
he did not say i’m sorry aloud—
uktark’s sorrow lived in the silence, in the steady press of his weight against blackfell’s side before he drew back.
the moondancer came at his call, light drifting to shadow. he turned to her, touching her chin with the briefest lift of his muzzle—an introduction without softness, but not without warmth.
he looked between them, then spoke, rough as winter stone:
my moondancer, he said, so blackfell would understand her place beside him. then, with a tilt of his head, my brother.
his gaze settled on her, on the quiet question in her eyes—we help?
uktark nodded once, solemn, certain. how could he not be?
then he faced blackfell fully, breath fogging between them.
i am uktark, he said, the name carrying the full weight of its claiming. tartok.
no longer faust.
no longer glacier-born prince.
only this—
a man remade in ice and loss and choice.
he flicked his tail toward the taiga stretching open before them.
we find the girl.

what was their story?

as he looks between the two, blackfell finds it hard to even care. how many romances had he seen faust endure, yet? too many to count. if he were to take a bet, he would be surprised if this woman was around through the end of the winter season.

a grim thought. one stolen away when faust introduces himself as... uktark. tartok. it seemed the last woman had had more of a lasting affect on him than the raven might've thought. so to that blackfell produces a noise; one of amusement, a grunting snort that leaves him taking a lumbering step back to drop his gaze over the man. uktark... the name is slow to leave his mouth.

then the crownore man laughs, not at the name, but at the hilarious thought that piques his mind; chuffing cold breath from his nostrils and his agape jaw. aye, it's a better name than the one your father gave you. certainly.

though his hilarity fades away into the set of his hardening brow and the firm line of his mouth whenever uktark offers to help him find her. out, he looks over the stretch of the snowy plains and feels an uneasy bristle come to his hackles. they lift, lift, lift. the girl could be anywhere. blackfell huffs.

she could be dead. i will not ask this of you. beneath his breath, a husky uttering: taktu konuna þína. skildu mig eftir með þessa skyldu.