Witch's Marsh please let me blaze

gleipnir rises with the cresting of the morning sun, though the sky above the marsh an overcast grey as a fine mist of rain falls from the heavens. it is the chilling dampness the mist brings with it that seeps into his bones that stirs him awake and he rises to his paws against the tall deadening stalks of cattails he has sunk into for the night. they offer poor bedding and poorer camouflage but beggars could not afford to be choosers and loathe though he might be at the notion, he must take rest where and when he can. even if it is a stench filled, soupy marsh.

he glimpses down at his forelegs, thinking that it will take several baths to rid himself of the dirt and mud that cakes him, he gives a toss of his head and pushes on, trying to discern the exit from this infernal marshland that seems to take delight in confusing his sense of direction, leaving him to stew in seething frustration as he discovers, yet again, that he has traveled in a wide circle.

It all reminded her of home and for a moment her restless spirit is soothed. Why leave? The land seemed to whisper to her here, begged her to stay for more than a passing moment — and she would do as it said. Opted to learn the land that beckoned her so.

Where her unknown company might have blended into the earth around them with any remaining snow piles and the general grey atmosphere, she was a ruby streak across the marsh. Though somewhere in her twisting — turning — she spotted him caked in mud from the legs. As if he had grown from the earth, the the dirt and decay. Her heart hitched and she felt as though she was seeing a ghost.

No, no, not a ghost.

Peryite. . .

Had he been given form? Did he have words for her? Speak she would silently beg of him.

the marsh is not quiet. it lives a life of its own, a crooning symphony of the small life that called it home. ravens and frogs and owls and other beasts that dominate its wretched existence, that call the witching place home. amidst the own sucking sound of his footfalls in the sloshing and frosted slop of the marsh, her fleet steps are lost. the northerner does not even realize she is there until she calls out to him. his head swings in her direction, glacial gaze locking upon her ruddy form, accented by pale irises. tunglgeisli ...moonbeam.

peryite. she calls him.

the chained has been called many things. keðjuna. frændi vígari ...slayer of kin. but never peryite. hver? the old tongue falls from betwixt his lips without thought, for it has yet to occur to him that there is a good chance these wolves do not speak it.

"Hver?"

She cannot understand him, the word feels distant and unusual. The word rattled in her mind but she could not place it anywhere. It did not dawn on her that this was just a man from a place far further than she could imagine. Far different than she knew of. Her tail merely twitched between her ankles in a silent anxiety as she settled her white-hot gaze on him.

Peryite, please. . . The words were a beg to him. She wished to understand him but she could not, it almost threatened to choke her with tears. She had talked to him! Why could he not talk back? Had she never listened enough?

gleipnir watches her, mutedly, not thinking her anxiety was anything to be curious about. they are strangers and she, she is young. he cannot determine specifics but he can easily determine that she she is younger than him. not even a yearling.

peryite, please...

the girl's tone is a plea. for a moment, gleipnir is reminded of his brothers during hólmganga ...how they pleaded for their lives. he hadn't listened. their disputes could only be settled by their deaths, and so they had been. she seeks something from him, desperately he thinks, he cannot fathom what. he only recognizes her words as a plea because of her tone. his grasp on the common tongue is stunted. limited. he was not cut from an diplomatic cloth. when siv summoned him to raid, or to battle with his berserker brothers and sisters it was not to speak.

his ears flutter back as he tries to pick through the words he does know for one that she would understand. when that fails and he feels the stoking embers of frustration build within his chest he tests the name ...or is it word? on his tongue, parroting the strange sounds she makes to form it, peryite?.

He speaks!

Yet he did not seem to recognize his own name and she wonders for a heartbeat if perhaps he is not familiar with what they call him. Perhaps he went by a name other than the one she knew for him. You. . .you're Peryite! She offered the information as the feathery whipping of her tail seemed to grow quicker.

On almost the toes of her paws, she moved to get a bit closer to him. If he vanished, it was the price she payed to know that perhaps it was him. Yet it was up close that her smarts seemed to grow. He seemed real, not like the ghostly vision she had imagined through the mist and muck. I. . .I. . .you're not. I— Her heart fluttered wildly in her chest as she was overcome with the knowledge that she was very close to a strange man.

you're peryite, the girl exclaims, as he notes the feathery beating of her tail. he? peryite? but ...what was a peryite? what did it mean? was it an insult? he doesn't think so, given the way she speaks to him. as if ...almost as if he is a deity like those he worships. but he casts aside the notion — he knows nothing of these wolves. they could very well be godless; and the nearer she draws, the more uncertain she becomes, he sees. as if she has never seen this peryite before. so, the question comes around, still unanswered. who is peryite? is it him? or someone or something else?

his muscles do not stiffen at her proximity. she is young and though not exactly to be written off as harmless, he doesn't perceive her as a threat. ... — not ...peryite? he asks uncertainly, though his uncertainty stems from his lack of confidence in the common tongue and whether he's parroted her words correctly.

It was all wrong. Everything she had thought in the moments before were ripped out from underneath her in such a whirlwind manner.

Wrong, wrong, w r o n g

Her breath hitched as she moved to backpedal. She did not want to be so close to him anymore, feared what he might do with her poor decisions presented. She knew not who he was anymore. No. . .no, you're not. Not Peryite. Her head quickly whipped back and forth, a firm show that he could never be Peryite.

I—I'm sorry. . .I—

thru the backdrop noises of the unquiet marsh, gleipnir's ear twitches at the hitch in her breath and the way she is quick to put back the distance she had crossed between them. the shake of her head is enough to tell him what he sought to know: that no, he was not this peyrite. but then...who was? who? it buzzes around and around in his head like the serpent eating its own tail. who! he blurts, suddenly, as the word surfaces to the forefront of his mind. the word that has previously eluded him. who peyrite?

a brief wave of satisfaction washes over him, but her uncertainty is interpreted to the northerner as fear. for good reason, he would admit. it is not a lie to say he enjoys being feared ...but she is a child and though he might be a kin slayer he will not slay a child. especially not one that hasn't even done anything to him then, perhaps, call him peyrite. but he doesn't perceive that as a slight just a mix-up.

i... he has heard her say it many times now. over and over. i. her? i. him? i gleipnir. again, uncertainty takes root in his voice as he tries to puzzle it out. it didn't sound quite right to him, despite how little of the common tongue he knows ( or rather, cared to remember ).

The blurted word only further cracked the fear in her, a deep vein running to her very core at this moment. Peyrite, god of pestilence. Hers. The one she sought comfort from the most when there was so much decay in her wake. Deceased brothers, deceased (former) pack mates, a winter wounded world. Peyrite had been her source of comfort in it all and she knew this man could not be that. Not with the waves of discomfort rolling inside of her mind.

Gleipnir. . . ? She tried hesitantly, afraid of possibly misinterpreting what he had say. Is that your name? It very well could have been a title — she was awfully familiar with a range of them — or even a word not in her language.

this is a second version of this post b/c i accidentally hit a keyboard shortcut while typing and lost the original. ;-;

the first word she speaks 'pestilence' is a strange sounding word and far, far too complex for him to even attempt to grapple with — thus is goes largely ignored. yet, the second word ignites an understanding that transcends their language barriers. god, gleipnir repeats the word with familiarity. ég á guði. he murmurs in the old tongue. i...i gods. he tries to translate, but frustration at himself, at never heeding siv's lessons, causes his brow to furrow.

i don't need to know how to speak their words, he can recall telling his milkmother. i only need to know how to speak war. fear is a universal language. arrogance at its prime.

she repeats his name, and asks him a question that he, once more, grapples with to decipher. gleipnir. he repeats with a firm nod, motioning to himself with a small gesture of his muzzle. gleipnir. he affirms a third time, hoping that he answers her mostly gibberish ( to him ) question.

He spoke with a broken tongue and she could only assume that he was not from here. Or if he was, he came from a pack with their own tongue. Pray? What did they pray for in his world? Who might they be praying to? Fear could be temporarily pushed aside for curiosity. Certainly so when he did not seem offended or like he might strike her down for being so foolish.

She felt reassured that Gleipnir was indeed his name, from the gestures he managed to conjure up. In return she would offer a nod of her head to show that she had understood his name. Sakhmet.

pray?

pray, pray, pray.

he tosses the word around a bit, trying to decide if it sounds familiar to him. kind of. pray, he parrots slowly. wo-words? he thinks that's the word he's looking for but again, as it has been most of his time speaking, he is uncertain. never had he ever thought he'd been wandering foreign lands and wishing he'd been more invested in diplomatic lessons. glacial gaze catches the bob of her head to communicate non-verbally that she understands him.

sakhmet.

now there was a name — a word! — he's never heard before; and it rolls off of her tongue in a way the sounds of his name do not. to him, it is as exotic as she is. sah-k-met? sak-met? he tries, feeling his tongue used to heavier sounds butchering her name. sakh? you? he motions to her with a small gesture of his muzzle then, wanting to be sure that she has offered him her name in return.

Perhaps it was his lack of knowledge with the common tongue that softened her to a degree. He seemed so willing to adjust and learn. It almost seemed as though any frustrations were not directly at her but perhaps simply the words they spoke with each other. She would be kind, patient and gentle with him as long as he remained willing.

Words. Speak to gods? It was with a hushed tone that she spoke to him, wondering if it might help him figure out what she had mean with her one worded question.

Then he attempted her name. It was a rather softening thing to watch him struggle with one of the only things she had ever been called. A short version is what he had settled on and there is a fond look in her eyes for it. Sakh. Another small nod from her. I'm Sakh. A paw raised to tuck close to her chest as though it might serve a gesture to herself.

would siv see him here and now, his milkmother might've been proud of him. she'd always been trying to temper his caliginous nature, for the legendary berserker supposedly reborn was not meant to be as hungry as the serpent that would swallow the world come ragnarok. maybe there are lessons that can only be learned by leaving mother's bosom. but the girl — sakh, as he now calls her — is seeming to switch from fear to gentleness.

and how should he answer that? with flashing teeth and bloodthirst? no.

... i — words to gods. words ...and other things. i ...give? ...words to gods. it sounds more like a question — about his sentence structure, more than anything else. ég bið til guða, it feels relieving to speak so effortlessly in the old tongue, despite that he has already gathered she does not understand it.

a firm nod is given as she repeats his nickname for her — because it is much easier for his tongue, too clumsy with the common, to speak. you. sakh. gleipnir affirms, to communicate that he understands now. she is sakh.

There was a hot sensation in her chest that seemed to bloom at his speech. A feeling like pride, and perhaps it was just that. Or awe at his ability to adapt. She had not even tried to speak his language (truthfully, she was not entirely sure where one would start) and yet he took like a duck to water with her explanations. A ghost of a smile lingered on her pale cheeks.

I give words to my gods as well. It is to pray. Was the connection clearer for Gleipnir now? Perhaps the one word would be easier than a whole sentence.

For a moment she wishes to keep him near to her, move through the lands with him. Such a funny thought after she had been overcome with fear. It had faded into a softness though, diluted by realizing he might be a stranger in even stranger lands. They know each other though. At least a touch.

Home? Place to go to?

though gentleness is not truly in his nature, there is an affinity for knowledge. to learn. and though they are not the same, they coincide when he needs them to, curbing the worst of his heathen tendencies. perhaps, it holds merit in the scars upon his face made in the name of the allfather. he, who sacrificed his eye for the pursuit of knowledge. he, who hung himself from the tree of life for it. perhaps that was the path that siv had set him on so many moons ago when she conducted the ritual of marring his flesh in replica to his late grandfather.

she speaks that she gives words to her gods, too. peryite, he thinks. that is the name of her god. or one of them, anyway. and then comes another question. home. he recognizes the word if because, it too, is rather close to the old tongue's equivalent. heim and home sound similar, like they are rooted in the same base language. not —, no, that doesn't sound right. what was that other word she'd used? no home.

It seems they have found another word that they both know. Both so widely important that she is forced to wonder if anyone from everywhere knows of gods and of home. Hesitantly the tip of her tail seems to wiggle between her ankles. She does not want to impose upon the monolith of a man but she wonders.

Travel together? It is winter and they have both found themselves without a stable place to go rest. She thought of what she might have to offer him, language perhaps and plenty of stories. Yet she wondered if that would be enough to gain what safety and security his strength could provide her when matched against others. At least until one of them has found where they need to be.

travel together?

travel? heard before and recognized as a memory surfaces of a small band of coywolves he and his berserkers had been sent to ...dispose of. one had screamed words at him as he'd cornered it. we travel. peace. he tucks away that memory. it has no place here other than to supply him with a common word. travel. you? i? he asks, assuming that he understands but wanting to be sure that his assumption is not wrongly based. he finds that he isn't opposed to the idea. she knows the language here and could teach him — if she was willing — and he ...well, he could offer companionship and protection. it seems fair enough of a bargain in his mind.

All she could offer at first was a soft nod at his words. That was what she meant and she wondered if he knew that or if he needed clarification on the words. Then he continued on. It seemed she had communicated clear enough for him.

Yes. Travel, you and I. Gleipnir and Sakh. A faint smile would mark her face as she wondered what might be thinking about her offer. Did he find her foolish perhaps? Such a humbling thought.

gleipnir watches her carefully, more inclined to read her body language and help it guide him towards the eventual understanding of her words. her nod is soft, but his keen glacial gaze catches it all the same. he shifts his weight again, lifting each paw out of the muck underfoot, after feeing the greedy mud swallow a little bit more of his paws as his weight causes him to sink. regardless of whether he's understood her or not ...he knows he does not wish to linger in this witching place for longer than necessary. there is little shelter. little more than mud and more mud as far as he cares to see.

gleipnir and sakh, he repeats in a quiet, contemplative rumble. ja, he answers her with a firm nod of his head. yes, i will travel with you, he hopes to communicate with her.

"Ja,"

She did not know his mother language but the answer seems clear, the word resembled yea in a way. All she gave was a soft rumble in her chest. One that stemmed from approval and contentedness. Come? She'd offer in a hushed tone. She would try to lead them to a better place. Or at least somewhere where the land was solid.

come.

her tone beckons him to follow her, and gleipnir, already lost in the witching marsh's labyrinth during his several attempts to trek his way out the first time is not inclined to argue. presumably, she knows these lands as she knows the common. thus, the northerner has no qualms about heeding her lead. he falls into step behind her, sure to stay close so he does not run the risk of losing her as she leads them to elsewhere. where ever that might prove to be. gleipnir didn't much care so long as it wasn't this marsh.