Ravensblood Forest from silence rose a symphony

The notes of their song weaved together for a moment before dying away, the wind carrying the memory of the tune like it would a leaf, catching it and guiding it away. Stjornuati's enchantment did not end so simply; little more than a glance was cast to his shadow before a raven cawed, calling his attention to the rafters of a tree. An intensity filled the livered colored eyes of the man as he watched the bird hop across the branch, loosing another cry before taking off into the forest.

He followed, moving as a ghost among the sacred boughs, overstepping branches and foliage alike while taking no heed for the direction he was running. Stjornuati's only drive in that moment was to stay on the path laid out for him by the hrafnsanda. His brother, while likely startled, would understand; the hringja was not to be ignored. Ever.

Down the raven came, landing in a seeming tower of its own making, a tree stretching its unadorned fingers to the sky filled with many more hrafnandar. Below them a single creature lay in wait, a wolf such as he, pale in color, dashed with the mark of his kill. A bróðir? Ears twisted, giving him his full attention, breathing yet labored from his sprint as he tried to make sense of what he had found.

The pale Nord found his voice.

Hrafnarnir heiðra þig.