Blackfeather Woods your beauty makes them weak

@Relmyna, maybe? only if you want/have time!

Nightcaller Visit quest.

sleep evades wintersbane as an unknown restlessness steals over him. a patrol, he thinks, but half an hour into a sweep of the borders and he realizes that the patrol isn't working to soothe his restlessness. he rolls his shoulders, pausing in his steps, drawing in a breath of frigid night air, letting the cold air seep deep into his lungs. it burns, briefly, pin-prickles of ice inside the heat of his body. winter is at the gates of the wilds, preparing it's assault upon their lands but there is confidence in the tundrian that blackfeather woods would be alright. they've accumulated numbers since he'd first joined their fold and they are blessed by the daedra that their woods is self-sustaining ...and even if it wasn't there are plenty of neutral territories bordering it that have vast prey.

it's not his concern ...well it is his concern as he does live within the pack and their chances of survival through the winter also affect his chances of survival; still, he can't help but feel like he's coming dangerously close to blurring a line he shouldn't be; he stops himself before he can; shutting off thoughts of that nature like the slam of a door.

on a whim, though perhaps it is less of a whim and more of an instinctual feeling, he ventures into heart of the grotto, towards nightcaller temple. as he shrugs into the sacrosanct area his glacial gaze is drawn to the massive rock with it's crack cleaving it nearly in half. last time he was here he'd been summoned by the listener to attend a rite with her. presumably, he's alone now as he paces nearer to the altar. it is groomed but he notices a few out of place weeds invading the holy ground and takes to plucking them out one by one. it's menial work but he's wants to soothe his mind into a quiet that will allow him to slumber and does not really mind what it takes; but in the meantime he might as well make himself useful.

wintersbane wasn't the kind of man that liked wasting time; his tendency to be impatient ( despite the vast improvement from his cubhood ) didn't oft allow it.

was thinking we needed an updated one <3

she was never far from the altar; it consumed her waking hours when she was not patrolling. and she had ceased hunting for herself the past several days; a few bites here and there from something hurriedly grabbed out of a cache fueled the priestess' frenzy. the morning before she had woken to a shaking of her limbs, and the frequency of the seizings had stirred her to begin preparations.
it was not a grisly task, nor one that moved relmyna's heart beyond a brief ache for her daughters. she had not yet become aware of her life's length; for a year the woman had endured, and the mother might yet see fit to give her more. for now, however, blackfeather filled her awareness, its thrumming heartbeat calling to her own. 
melonii she was not, but the shadowdown of voices unseen spoke in her dreams, and the ravens had come again. it was from them she had departed this evening, and in her ruff a single jet wingfeather dangled, framing the ruined side of her muzzle. it was not a decoration, relmyna decided; a gift, from the avian creatures who had come to earn her fealty simply by dint of their existence.
the altar loomed ahead, and wintersbane near to it; the priestess heard the clip of his teeth as he groomed the earth alongside the sacred place. perhaps this was his worship: to be in service. silently relmyna settled herself at the edge of the treeline to watch, to pray, to lift her eyes to the cold air and its secrets stretching in blue-black expanse above them.

♥

immersing himself into blackfeather's culture and religion was an on-going work in progress; but, the more he learned the easier it was becoming. it is hard for him to deny the existence of the daedra that rule these woods and the wolves within them for he has seen them with his own two eyes. it did not matter that he'd been delirious with a drug induced fever — of mushrooms that he now knew were good for making him stoned out of his mind — he'd seen them and he remembered. it was hard to forget the mighty and holy beasts that had formed out of the mists and shadows: spider-limbed mephala, the ethereal night mother, skeletal sithis. they blessed him with a gift of seeing them, despite that it had only lasted as long as the high had. it gave wintersbane the affirmation that he'd been subconsciously searching for: he belonged here. among these woods, these gods, these wolves.

he plucked another weed from the ground, this one a thorny tuft of thistle. he lets out a small hiss of pain as it jabs him in the mouth, splicing the soft flesh of his lips. he releases it as quickly as he grabs it. he digs at it a bit, careful not to get prickled again and turns to kick the unearthed weed remains away from the altar. wintersbane's muscles tense in surprise as his glacial gaze falls upon the familiar figure of the listener in that moment. "i..." the tundrian rasps the word in readied explanation and sheepishly lowers his gaze from the dark priestess' face. he's staring. but he can't help himself. he looks upon her as the men of sparta and troy looked upon helen: the face that launched a thousand ships ( of course there was so much more to helen than her looks ). she's captivating to him. as ethereal to him as the gods that commune with her. "i hope i didn't disturb you." he hadn't seen her there at first but the tundrian will be the first to admit that as attentive as he can be, he can also be rather inattentive when he's caught up in the ramblings of his own mind.

it's the first time, he thinks, that he's ever spoken to her. it seemed like poor manners to speak during the rite and there'd been no need for words during the hunt. he doesn't feel like it's wrong at the moment. the altar is quiet, not absent the power and presence of the gods but no on-going rite or prayer that he might ruin if he spoke.

<3

she was not ready for his voice, for the steady, mature tones that hardly fit his youth. but he was not an ordinary man, relmyna knew — his bearing was that of a male twice his age, his proud ruff silvered not with age but the touch cold lands. perhaps at one time she had known the same — small memories here and there of her younger self with another name, racing delightedly in the snow.
a tell-tale warning snap of pain blossomed into a dull throb within her skull, and the listener drew her thoughts away from the past with alacrity. gathering herself, relmyna approached wintersbane, semi-aware of how the feather moved along her cheek but focused on him for the present. you did not. 
there had been something else in the ice-sky gaze — she recalled how the dark man in the grasslands beyond blackfeather had too looked at her, and some timid nature she did not before recall having now bled through into her heart. a smile played indolently at the edge of her mouth; she lowered her muzzle to hide it, sweeping the ground in a reverent bow before the altar.
do they call to you also, wintersbane? she inquired, turning the syllables of his name over in her mind. a cold name for a beast who could surely bear the same frigid nature, were it not for the haunting quest of his intelligent gaze. words evaded relmyna; she fought the urge to glance at him again and lifted her chin with a look to the darkened heavens. 
they speak so much sometimes i do not sleep, she admitted, and this time she did look at the darkfurred man, noting how his moon-stippled hackles faded into the deep black veldt of his pelt, sheened in a night's blue.

wintersbane is relieved to find that he hadn't disturbed her, reading the words that she mouth to him, as silent as she'd been during the rite. unintentionally, it answers a question he'd harbored since first meeting the listener: though he does not know whether he is right or not he is now left to assume that she is mute. it should not surprise him, this assumption made by her continuity to mouth her words. her shadowed daughter does not speak either — though, he thinks with amused fondness that her war cries are banshee shrieks that would be enough to make blood of her foes curdle. he makes a low noise of acknowledgement, glad that he hasn't bothered her by his culling of the very few weeds that have cropped up within the temple.

he takes a moment so survey the land, affirming that he's gotten the few straggler weeds before his gaze returns to the listener and not a moment too soon. "perhaps...," he responds with uncertain honesty. "if they do call to me i do not understand them." he admits. "i...saw them. the night mother and dread father, i mean. after i ingested some mushrooms but when they spoke to me it was with a language older than sky and bone. i couldn't make sense of it." he tells her slowly, brow furrowing as he recalls upon the memory. he does not know whether his inability to translate their words is a good thing or a bad thing. in hindsight, it was likely how the pale, scarred man felt as wintersbane babbled tundrian at him as if he was speaking common; except, perhaps, minus the feeling that he was hearing something undoubtedly holy.

his gaze flitters over her after she admits that sometimes they talk so much that she can't sleep; informing him that they suffer from that evasion of sleep condition. it's strange, at least as far as wintersbane is concerned, he's never inherently bothered by anything. he's not bothered by anything at the moment. there is little in the world he would lose sleep over. mallaidh's words still haunt him; as they always would but he's made his peace with lotte's ghost. he's not restless because he's bored: he keeps himself busy with dark brotherhood quests, working towards his trades, and being as useful as he could to blackfeather.

he has no reason for his lack of sleep that he can pinpoint. "what do they speak of?" he inquires, unsure if he was even allowed to ask that. he's curious but if the words of the daedra was not meant to be shared with anyone but the speaker then he would not press further. he's still learning how the religion ties into their daily life and ranks for he understands now that it's all related. you couldn't seem to have one without the other. "if you can tell me, that is." he adds quietly as an afterthought.

he studies her again, noting the feather that framed the ruined side of her muzzle. "the feather looks nice on you." he tells her earnestly; offering her a small, sheepish quirk of his lips as he follows the brief impulse to derail their conversation to compliment her.

an inquiry, and one she parted her jaws to answer. and then a compliment held in the low dulcet rumble of tones carved from ice, somehow warmed with a brief sunshine for her. self-conscious, beneath her pale fur the listener flushed, lifting her gaze to the dark canopy overhead as if it would provide her with clarity. thank you. i have been spending time with the ravens. on the third day, the largest gave me this. relmyna recalled how it had moved along the branch, had hopped onto her nape without a show of fear, and when it lifted, the feather twisted firmly into her ruff as a gift.
the mother has come to you, she mused, eyes closing for a long moment. she was pleased with you when last you were here, and now sees fit to reveal herself. a statement, but was she not listener? did she not speak for the gods when they had no language that could be understood by mortals?
the cold whisper of winds promising snow suddenly knifed through the altar-site, a frenzy which stirred her fur and departed as soon as it had come. truly delighted, relmyna laughed, a low sound that came from the recesses of her throat and dissipated with the icy zephyr. she listens even now. 
she whispers to me of change in blackfeather, of the dangers i can not afford to regard complacently. we are a place of magick, after all, and at times those who are monstrous are drawn to the wood for that reason. so somber a note to end her speaking upon, but wintersbane had asked, and relmyna saw no reason to answer with anything less than honesty.

no need to match the length of this. i was super inspired and as a result i wrote you a novel, haha.

the ravens hold a significance to those more familiar with their ways than the tundrian, he knows and though he has never spared the birds more than an errant thought here and there he admittedly finds it rather fascinating that the largest of the bunch that inhabit their home gifted her with it. is that a sign from their gods, wintersbane wondered? or did the largest raven find her an ethereal sight as the man before her did? the gamma lets out a contemplative hum with a soft smile as his gaze touches the feather once more as it flutters along her flesh as the dark priestess looks towards the canopy.

"i'm glad she's pleased with me," wintersbane replies with relief, shoulders steeling and chest rising to use his silver-blue mane to protect him from the brief icy wind that rushes around them. "i was nervous that i upset her by not praying the day we first met." but as a man that spent most of his time being selfish it didn't seem right to pray for anything when he had no one else to pray for. holy words, he personally feels, should not be for himself. if he is to pray it should be for someone else who needs it more than he; it should be an act of selflessness.

a laugh leaves the listener's lips, a low sound that wintersbane finds rather pleasing; made more so by the fact that it was jovial, borne earnestly followed by her mouthing to him that the night mother listened to them even now.

the jovial moment turned serious with a quickness that wintersbane found a bit disarming. the listener mouths of change, danger and monsters that are drawn to the woods because of it's magic. change wasn't necessarily a bad thing but as he assumed the change she spoke of was linked with the danger and monsters it stirs something in wintersbane's breast; the studious and purposeful stoking of a fire. defiance, determination, and a ferocious protectiveness of a place and wolves that have come to mean something to him in a very short amount of time.

with moonspear he'd been rather indifferent about it all; about the pack and even to an extent his ex-girlfriend. maybe, wintersbane considers, it's because he's always belonged here. "they will have to get through me first." his words are a rough rasp; a promise. a promise to her and to the daedra that he knows now are listening. the thought of battle does not scare him; he's a beast built and born for war; it runs through wintersbane's veins just as thoroughly as cunning ran through arturo's own veins ( and though he spurns the the idea of being anything like arturo he has inherited traits from the gangster too ). the gamma is the product of generations of battle-born soturi and he does not shy away from the prospect of danger. it unnerves him, yes, shown only in the bristle of hackles along his spine. he's finally found happiness and looks to the future with bright, hopeful eyes ( settling down, starting a family of his own as just a few of the top things on his list ) and the prophecy of having it threatened by the vague dangers and monsters she mentions does not, admittedly, sit well with him.

it comes with the territory, he thinks. there are always obstacles in life, this wintersbane is no stranger to. the reputation of blackfeather woods is so twisted and dark and drives fear into the hearts of many to the point that wintersbane ponders the consideration that such fear might cause wolves or packs that feel threatened to lash out in desperation. fear was a powerful motivator, yes, but it could also inspire bravery and courage. a cornered animal might be terrified but that only meant it was going to lash out and fight harder. which reminded him...

"i met a male a while ago; tried to recruit him. he told me that a woman named liri had warned him to stay away from us." wintersbane conveys to the listener with a soft rumble in his throat. wolves speaking ill of the woods might stoke that fear but it was also extremely bad for business. "he might not have been a good fit for us in the end but it troubles me that the rumors are costing us potential recruits before we've even had the chance to recruit." and, that was an issue from what wintersbane remembered. they'd been on the brink of extermination when he'd joined their ranks. he's contemplated finding this woman, having held onto her name for as long as he had; but he has yet to attempt to seek her out. what would he say? he is no leader and it's not his place to judge whether to address the ill-reputed rumors borne of past leadership or not to.

the tundrian looks to the dark priestess for guidance now, on whether he should pursue or cease and desist and let such concerns for the dark council to handle as they saw fit.

i tried tho cuz your posts are always fantastic and worth it <3

his eyes held her, the motions of his body easy beneath his heavy pelt. from where had he come? some northern beast; some thrall carved from cold stone and dark ice. and yet there was warmth here, in the glances of his eyes. firmly he pledged to shed blood for the wood, and it settled some part of relmyna she had not realized was in flux. a whisper; wind brushing the feather along her cheek once more. the priestess was here to listen while the tundra warrior spoke, but as she listened, a sensation of gratitude for his presence in blackfeather swam up. 
the minute movements of his form were of interest to her, if for no other reason than it gave her brief bits of data about who he was as an individual. she understands there are many ways to worship, the listener murmured silently, seeking to reassure wintersbane. after all, had he not come to provide service to the altar? and this was their second meeting here. what work was that than the hand of an unseen god?
relmyna, liasion for the daedric deities as she might be, was still a woman. therefore she was not impervious to how the nightglow had played along the ripple of sharp guard hairs, nor the cold look in his eye: the expression of a guardian as he gave to her his stony word, a promise she heard as the man had meant it. as if delayed, the flush at his earlier smile came now; she was annoyed with herself, with the quickening cadence of her heart and the blood beating warm beneath her winter-thickening pelage, with the way she could not quell these things within her.
he is just a man, the listener hissed at the unbecoming, girlish bauble of feeling. how many men had looked upon her? how many had found her wanting? or considered her desirable? it was a misread, relmyna decided, finding solace in the thought: some loneliness flaring in her soul had projected a subconscious want, and the nuance of wintersbane's gaze was not what she had thought it to be. 
insisting upon this firmly to herself — and he was young, larger than her but with a peaking of youth that had long left her own body — the listener at last steeled her own shameful cravings and was able to look upon his countenance with only a small sensation moving low in her awareness, a roil she could not control but would not indulge. 
intrigued, touched that he had gone out into the wild and attempted to bring back wolves for blackfeather, relmyna's scarred lips curved in a smile. the gods lead worthy joiners here. they brought you, she added in spite of herself, wanting to retract the words but letting her gaze settle upon his stormblue eyes once more.
he had turned to her for instruction; she saw fit to give it, and did so in a moment's time. we are not known for our diplomacy, and rumours will spread. i feel to combat this, blackfeather must be more visible, that our wolves not always keep to the shadows.
our name will be known. and now relmyna made no attempt to glance from wintersbane; against the mortal edict of their kind their gazes vied. this liri is of no account; our numbers have grown in spite of her. it is perhaps time that blackfeather inspired fear once again.

♥

while his words of the failed recruitment attempt are colored lightly with his disappointment at his failure ( and that might have been the first attempt and fail but was far from his last ); the dark priestess meant to reassure him. her words do reassure him and his lips quirk into a small smile that his genuine in it's formation. it tugs at his facial muscles without his consent, equal parts humble and flattered. a sharp contrast to the vanity and arrogance that he also feels. a compliment from the listener, as a woman of his interest, a mouthpiece for the deadra, and a leader is humbling. wintersbane doesn't seek to take advantage of all things in his life and for those ( perhaps rare ) things that humble him, he is grateful. "i try to be worthy." he admits, but not because he seeks her reassurance. he admits his thoughts aloud because he's not quite sure he's there yet; but there is confidence that he would be, at some point. she believes he is despite that he still lingers in trepidation. he is his own worst critic.

while the tundrian worries over it, relmyna doesn't seem disheartened. her words cause inspiration to bloom in his chest as her eyes bore into his. she speaks of inspiring fear in the wilds and he ponders her words. he's held onto his own personal belief that fear was hard to control. press too close to a cornered animal and it would attack with blind paranoia and panic. but if it's done right ....well he hasn't seen it done right yet; but he doesn't doubt that if executed correctly it would be a powerful weapon. he doesn't tell her aloud that he'll help in any way that he can — it was implied by his previous pledge, he feels. it goes without saying. instead, he gives a sage nod, wordlessly communicating that he both understands and agrees.

"where do we start?" he asks, finally breaking his silence, despite that it was comfortable. ...if there is a limit to wintersbane's ambition it has yet to be found.

you are.
it was not a moment before she rejoined, swiftly and with a confidence lent by the murmur of the mother at her shoulder. great things this man was destined for. she had never considered herself a scryer of hidden truths, but they lay all the same in the frostglow of wintersbane's hard gaze. a boyking if she ever saw one.
an heir.
no. he was not a melonii, and relmyna had long given herself to the reality that the wood must be claimed by the indigo and fire-eyed ones. and her own daughters — the listener did not think they were destined for leadership, but as speakers, so seized had they been since birth by the ancient magicks of blackfeather.
maegi, its dark mistress.
and wintersbane, sire of some fel energy that spurred upward from her breastbone and into her gaze.
the meloniis must be united, she murmured, unsure if he would understand but giving silent shape to the thought all the same. blackfeather will not survive while the family is divided.
a slow blink.
we need a sacrifice.

the dark priestess speaks of the melonii's ...and that they must be reunited. it doesn't take wintersbane long to realize that she speaks of vaati and damien. the two dark masters that have been mysteriously missing from blackfeather woods since his return. wintersbane is glad that vaati is gone — though the likelihood of being recognized is extremely slim to none the tundrian doesn't care for the silver and sand clad boy and it'd been fairly mutual last time they'd been in one another's presence and damien ...well he hadn't known the man well enough to form much of an opinion on him. he thinks the woods is better off without them but he didn't dare say this out loud to relmyna who appeared to house a very different opinion.

what if it does? it seems to be doing alright at present, wintersbane questions and points out his deduction. he doesn't understand what's so special about that family that everyone thinks that this place will perish without them. it's current state ( growing and relatively peaceful ) is a testament to kove and relmyna's own success with the place. and if they don't want to return? he inquires next, mostly out of curiosity. is this what the gods tell her? that there is no other family line worthy? is there no other family capable or worthy of the magick of this place? of leading? the tundrian puts voice to his inner question, unsure if he was asking relmyna or mephala. that seemed like a waste of potential to him, placing all of their cards in one family and one family alone.

i apologize if that's forward or out of line. the gamma seeks understanding but he realizes that perhaps he should seek it without so much questioning of the daedra. especially as they've been so good to him. forgiving. blessing him with sight of them. he diverts his gaze from her for a moment, as if he waits to feel the sting of anger from some unseen force. if the gods are upset that he questions he does not feel it and thus looks back to her once more. what should we sacrifice? wintersbane zeroes in on her suggestion, eager to soothe any upset he might've caused, eager to appease and comply to sithis, mephala and relmyna's wishes.

it was not for wintersbane to question the gods, the listener wished to inform him crisply. but no — her heart softened. he was undoubtedly a man of logic, and his willigness to ask questions made the northerner a valuable sort indeed. the melonii line built blackfeather. with the help of others, of course; kove is not a melonii. nor i.
a sigh; kove's reserved nature did not suggest he was one with the spirits of the wood. and yet, he was one of the dark brothers. and she, not one of the family, attuned all the same. she was no one, really, relmyna supposed of herself. a pause; her gaze had pulled from that of the tall young man and back to the altar. blackfeather's magicks have been splintered. i believe only a member of that bloodline will draw them together again.
a brief smile wreathed her muzzle, and then a quiet and somber expression passed over relmyna's features.
the gods will provide. as they always had; as the listener had always trusted them to do since she had come awake at cicero's side.

it occurs to wintersbane that he is, perhaps, being too liberal with his questions. she explains that the melonii line built blackfeather woods ...and in a way he kind of understands but also he does not. change was not always a bad thing. kingdoms changed reigning families all the time, but he does not say this. he's already been too unmindful of his words. putting all their cards on a family that is clearly divided, that shows no intentions of reuniting seems foolish to him. it was like believing that him and mallaidh could ever reconcile. no matter how their meetings started out they always seemed to end in the same way: with tragedy. the most recent one being the worst thus far.

she is idealistic and it makes him adore her even more, despite the sadness that her concrete belief stirs in his breast. she is confident and he admires it, but he knows from his own experiences that a family divided might not ever be able to mend that broken bridge. sometimes, he speaks, breaking his silence, voice turning solemn as he offers her a preview into himself, dispelling a tiny fraction of the mystery he's kept. we cannot repair such bridges no matter how hard we try. sometimes those differences run too deep and when a divided family stands too far apart all they can do is hurt one another. maybe the melonii's would be different but ...their continued division would suggest that they're not.

perhaps the gods will favor the melonii reunion. he offers for placation. he does not mean to question, nor step upon her belief, only offer his perspective from his own experiences despite that she hadn't asked him for it.

---

287 words

let's fade this and have another :D

he offered comfort, but relmyna would not take it. he knew nothing of it all, and nor did she know the enormity of her own lore. they were broken, they were sundered; she did not stop to consider that the wood fared well, and it was only she who suffered, only she was was beginning to slip beneath the loss and horror and sorrow that had marked all her years, both remembered and unrecognizable.
relmyna turned away from him, her gaze fixed to the earth; there was little to say or to mention. there were no words that would chase the cobwebs from a heart grown more thick with dust over time, nothing to quell her inner chaos. wintersbane looked at her so — she wished to dash that from his eyes, replace it with the disgust she felt for herself, day to day, her hours edged in loathing.
perhaps he would go now. perhaps he would not come back.

absolutely! teeny, tiny wrap up post for archival. <3

she turns away from them and the tundrian diverts his own gaze. he does not attempt to speak again, letting the silence settle between them. but he does not leave. he stays and returns to his original task at hand, pulling another weed from the ground with his teeth.

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49 words