King Elk Forest heart the keeper

aw for warhall peeps <3 potential formation thread

there is something forlorn about these lands, something the englishman can't place. the trees reach tall and wide, shadowing above him in thick and glorious canopies. the sun does not touch aside from in places where those canopies part in wide glens or small openings, giving way to golden rays.
the land is thick with health. despite winter's nip, there is a flushness. ripe with prey, herds of elk big and small roaming in and out from between trees and frostbitten foliage. his mouth practically salivates.
raedwulf walks with thundering pawsteps, though draws to a stiff pause when there is a distant disturbance. the loud scrape of tine upon the harsh bark of tree, loud, grating, large.
the wolf gawks in mild alarm. what sort of huge beast lurked?

The salt air was far behind her now, yet the taste of brine lingered on her tongue, a phantom memory of the coast, and of the man the ocean had swallowed whole. She had run until the pads of her feet were raw, fleeing the suffocating velvet of her noble house. They would have sold her off again, traded her like a piece of fine silver to the next suitor, but Belinda had chosen the unknown over a cage. Now, the forest loomed around her, thick and glorious to eyes that knew only manicured gardens and the stark, grey sea. To her, it felt vast, overwhelming.

She was tired, bone-tired, and the hunger in her belly was a sharp, twisting knot. She had paused to rest near a thicket when the thundering steps of a stranger vibrated through the frozen earth. Her body froze, almond-shaped green eyes widening as she spotted the large male moving with a confidence she envied. He seemed made of this land, sturdy and flush with health, while she felt like a brittle leaf blown inland.

The grating noise of tine against bark shattered the silence. It was loud, heavy, and spoke of a beast far larger than a wolf. She saw the stranger freeze, his alarm mirroring the spike of fear in her own chest. Belinda shrank lower, her belly fur brushing the snow, making herself small. The breath hitched in her throat, and words from a life she had just lost tumbled softly, instinctively from her lips.

„Hvað er þetta…?” she whispered, the norse vowels round and trembling in the cold air. She looked from the shadows toward the stranger, half-fearful of the unseen monster in the trees, half-fearful of him. „Er det... et skrímsli?” The woman did not know the beasts of this deep wood; she only knew the monsters of the sea. And in this moment, the towering shadows felt perilously alive.

raedwulf turns a passing gaze unto the woman who appears just as he, body language drooping into a softness. he can smell the fear upon her, stricken by the great beast of these woodlands, and he would not have her thinking he too among it.

though his hackles lift, tail stiffening behind him as he turns his broad head toward the trees, ears pricked hard forward. this is no wolf. no bear either. an elk stag, fully-grown—perhaps beyond such—and bull-proud, raking his antlers to mark himself king of the nearby glen.

his lip curls faintly over the gap of his missing fang.

eolh. he chuffs to the woman. a rough-hewn voice thick upon his tongue. his time in forneskja, alongside the great chieftain @Solharr had let him garner an understanding of the northern tongue. though, he himself still could not speak it.

he takes a few steps closer and looks to her with blue eyes, gesturing for her to come out from the thickets. hit is siccu.

The panic that had seized her chest began to uncoil, loosened by the stranger’s sudden calm. He did not pose as a threat; he stood like a sentry.

‘Eolh’ as in ‘elgur’; the word rasped against the cold air, rough and guttural. It was not the polished tongue of the noble courts she had fled, nor was it the sharp, rolling cadence of her husband’s people, yet it struck a chord between them. The cognate rang clear in her mind, bridging the divide. It was a stag; a beast of the earth, not a monster of the dark.

Linda watched him, her pale head tilting slightly. He understood norse, she could hear it in the thickness of his voice, yet he was clearly of this land. When he beckoned her with safety, the intent pierced through her caution.

The pale woman stepped from the brambles, but she did not lower herself to the ground in fear this time. Instead, she moved with the quiet, drifting grace of a soul looking for a harbor. She cast a wary glance toward the hidden stag, then turned her full attention to the scarred male who showed no fear of it.

While she was not born from the North, she kept it hidden, locked away behind a wall of grief, and offered him the only part of herself that still felt real. „Já... Elgur,” she murmured, her voice soft and melodic against his roughness. She looked at him, her green eyes searching his face, acknowledging that he was the more dangerous beast in this clearing: „Sterkur.”

---

the englishman watches her step free of the brambles, and exhales an easy breath as she does not bolt away, much like a frightened doe. she does not seem helpless, and this garners his attention. his ears flick at the word she offers back.

strong.

raedwulf grins.

gēa. strang. and the bull scrapes again in the distance, but farther off now. it is a duller, less resounding noise. the stag does not seek to come closer, leaving them in peace. raedwulf turns his head in the direction of its path and hums.

though he steps aside, before her, making himself a shield-wall. shall the beast return, it would meet him first. ne ondraed þū. ic scilde þē.

he tells her the truth of it, though his eyes burn with humor and his teeth show in a light grin.

The stranger’s grin was a sudden, bright thing in the grey woods, but it was his movement that truly settled her spirit. He stepped before her, his broad shoulders cutting off her view of the distant danger.
She understood the promise perfectly, I shield you, and the familiarity of his ancient tongue made her heart ache. But she pushed the words down, letting the widow take precedence. As she looked at the sturdy wall of his back, the panic finally receded, replaced by a sudden flush of shame. Where were her manners? She had been born highborn; she knew better than to accept the service of a guardian without knowing whom to honor.
Belinda straightened her posture, smoothing her hackles. She dipped her head in a low, respectful bow to his profile. „Skjöldur,” she murmured, naming him shield in her husband's tongue. Belinda paused, pale green eyes fixing on his face with a gentle, expectant inquiry. „Hvað heitir þú?”

she came out of the brambles low and quiet, soot-dark against the green, heat ghosting off her skin. when she spotted the pair, she lifted her head and barked once — sharp, carrying — enough to pull their eyes without chasing them off.

as the larger male moved to shield, she slowed. stopped. no threat in her posture. her tail stayed low but loose, head tipped in acknowledgment rather than fear. she circled just enough to see them both, reading ribs, stances, the way they held themselves beneath the forest’s weight.

then she sat back on her haunches and touched a paw briefly to her chest, then to the ground between them. an offering of meaning, not words. warhall. shelter. a place that takes the broken and makes them hold.

her gold eyes stayed on them, patient. waiting to see if they would step forward — or fade back into the trees.

---

raedwulf is glad to see the woman calm. a smoothening of hackles and a lift of her head, he looks then upon those green eyes of hers, and tilts his head.

she calls him skjöldur, and he hums a response: blōsta.

the smile of his is bronze, warm like the dawn of summer, and it is wholly for her. stepping closer when she requests his name, the saxon lowers his head and offers her his crown. ic eom raedwulf.

he is eager to know her name, but before she might speak it, another woman appears.

this one is smaller, with rat-brown fur tattered by burn scars. the englishman turns halfway on his paws towards her and offers a dip of his head in greeting, trying to make certain of her mute gesturing.

hāl þǣr.