Firestone Hot Springs this will never end

Forward dated/Vague dated @Arlette

A spectre moved through the night, pallid fur ethereal in the wash of the moon that shone down upon the land. Though no souls walked the lands alongside him, it was not oft that @Solpallur was far away, the ties of bræðralag linking them in ways that could not be explained with words, much less words of the common tongue. Should his darker half catch up, then they would explore the night together; in the meantime, Stjornuati would heed the hringja that had drawn his attention like a lover would be drawn to their most intimate desires.

Here, where the air was thick with heat and humidity, the Nordic man would slow to a stop, taking in the view of the springs. The glitter of moonlight upon the waters illuminated the air like stars illuminated the sky, something that the glory of day could never quite touch. Beauty of the area was marked and ignored after his initial observation, dark eyes roving to find the object of this pull he felt. Had it all been a figment of his imagination? Or simply the desire to wander more?

One paw in front of the other, Stjornuati began his venture forward once more, slow and precise as he picked his way among the springs.

The spectre was never gone long or far from his shadow, though Solpallur did not make himself known as he stalked behind. He did not share the same hringja that had drawn his counterpart but he felt a similar pull to follow him. The long, coiling tendrils of heat into the cool night air were enough on their own, though he did not desire to linger in the warmth for long. Perhaps in the dead of winter, where the nights were longest, he would find himself here of his own accord.

But for now, he trailed behind, only occasionally catching a flash of stark white where the moonlight shone down through the slow crawl of broken clouds. The flatland was an open place, a good place to take in the night sky had he been able to. A way to orient himself and feel a natural peace that he did not normally seek or have when daylight came. Distraction grasped him then, pulling him away from his trail of Stjornuati, and Solpallur veered off into the night.

If something of interest came along, he would join his bróðir again.

cameo to have this in my log, might pitch him back in

Sorry for the wait, hectic days at work!

Arlette had traveled, but she had never traveled this far on her own. The female evaded Kaistleoki. She didn't feel the need to see Ira at this time. She just wanted to be out on her own. To think that before she would never have that courage. As she continued past familiar territory, the female had stumbled upon something she only heard about. Hotsprings. Kaito had told her, and she wondered if he had been here as well.

As night began to set, she started to explore around the springs. The scent of the springs was overwhelming. She could feel the heat coming off it but didn't dare to enter the water yet. She curiously moved from spring to spring, like a wraith floating along with the steam coming from some of the springs. Only once she was close to the pale male she realized that he had been there. She froze into place, red eyes looking at the male before her. It seemed like he was staring at her. "Hi there," she greeted politely, the scarred side of her face shielded away.

At some point, the viking had ceased his movement to watch the approach of the woman dressed in white. The closer she ventured, the more defined she became, steam swirling away from her as she disturbed the springs just as he had. Livered eyes took note of what stood out to him: pale, small, lithe, soft, scarred. It was the last item upon the list that drew his attention, a moth drawn into a flame that it could not resist.

Only when there were mere feet between them now did the kona notice him and stop, looking like a doe caught in its grazing by a predator. For all he knew, the comparison might be on-the-nose, his ears pricking and swiveling to catch her gentle greeting, eyes taking in the way she turned her face away so that she might hide the scars that drew his interest so.

Why do you hide the proof of your survival? He asked bluntly. Stjornuati had never been known for his tactfulness.

She watched the male for a moment, her red eyes curiously battered up at him. His question was direct and confronting. She never saw her scars as something to be proud of. She had been the only one who had survived from her little family and might have a bit of survivors guilt as well. She turned her eyes away. "Since the memories are too painful to remember," she returned quietly, however she did turn her face towards the male, not hiding the scars since he had seen them anyhow.

Still, she felt that they were ugly and that they portrayed her in a way that wasn't her. Perhaps she was sticking too much to the old Arlette. She wasn't the old Arlette anymore. She had changed after the attack happened. She was not gullible and giggly as she was before. She had grown more confident in her abilities but less confident in her looks, while before she was never bothered with how she looked. Her attention turned back to the male. "I'm Arlette," she introduced.

The emotions that crossed her face was quick and fleeting, her eyes fleeing from him like a dove startled from the brush at his presence. There was a flicker of something -- disappointment? -- at the action but the dove returned to surprise him, meeting his gaze and reforming his view of her into something else, something other than a dove. A doe, perhaps; flighty, but still strong in someways. Enticing, in others. Delicate, with a spark of something deep within; a smolder that could grow into a flame, if kindled and cared for.

Arlette.

Stjörnuáti, He would answer in reply, still observing the mark of her past upon her face. It was not ugly, not to him. Scars were something revered in his homelands, the mark that you bested your obstacles and lived on to meet another day. Even the most painful scars were something to be proud of. What had he learned back then, as a boy? What had he learned when the lessons of life were painful and harsh?

They do not have to, He stated in careful, common tongue. While he had a better grasp on the language than his brother did, some of its finer details eluded him. A thrumming, thoughtful sound left him, canting his head in a boyish gesture that no longer suited him well. Heiðra minningu látinna með því að lifa því lífi sem þau gátu ekki. He paused, thinking hard, trying to word it in a way she understood, unless she understood him.

Ah... Make the dead... proudful by living.

He was trying.

Her eyes blinked softly when he spoke his name. "Stjör..?," she tried to repeat. She was probably completely butchering that name. She flushed and shook her head. "I apologize, it is a beautiful name," she commented. He was probably not from around here. That assumption was confirmed when he continued in a differently language. Arlette was baffled and intrigued at the same time. She had never heard a wolf speak a language like that.

She was about to ask what it meant when he tried to repeat it. Thinking about Kaito and about her unborn pups, and how she had probably disgraced them with how she had been living. She had been distant and unlike herself. Tears welled up in her eyes thinking about them. Arlette nodded in reply though. 'I understand. That is good advice," she returned. "Thank you for giving me your perspective," she added.

She blinked the tears away, she had done enough crying. Kaito wouldn't want her to cry. "You are very kind," she complimented. "Your language is beautiful, so different," the female complimented. She wished she could do something in return for him. While she was still sad about their deaths, his piece of advice did help give her some perspective. "Where are you from?," she asked curiously.

Her apology was brushed away with a shake of his head, encouraging the the truncated version of his name. Stjör. He had gone by it before, when he had been a boy, and he could go by it again now that he was a man. Truthfully, he did not mind, and found it would likely be easier than teaching her his full name. Perhaps in time, unless this was to be their only stefnumót.

An emotion whispered through him as he watched her eyes turn to glass, an almost holy shine coming from them as they caught the reflection of moonlight. He might have continued to stare, had she not said words that he did not quite grasp. While the Nord understood whatever she had said was good, the nuances were lost on him, and he gave her a rather perplexed look.

Solpallur would have laughed, he thought, at Stjornuati being called kind and beautiful. An ear flickered as he made attempts to follow what she said, until one question stood out to him. Norður. North. Far North.

On a whim, the distance between them shrunk, his taller form drawing near so that his tongue could sweep across the soft plush of her cheek, an attempt to help her clear what sadness he could from her. Proud, He said again, looking down at her. They are proud. While he did not know who it was that she had lost, the scars that graced her visage told a story of a fight, and those who went down fighting feasted in their time-after. This, he knew, for his mother had told him.

She dipped her head when repeated the short version of his name. She was grateful that he accepted that. So this male, so interesting, came from far away. North. Her family, her grandfather came from the north but she was not sure this was the same language that he spoke. She never considered that if she moved further away from her home pack wolves might not speak the same language as her. Still, she wasn't planning on moving that far from EH.

She watched as the male came closer. Arlette grew unsure. She willed herself to stay as he came into her personal bubble. What she didn't expect was the lick. She was rather startled and blushed. Not that that was seen on her skin because of her fur. He had licked over her scars. She was so surprised. "T-thanks," she let out, startled. She battered her eyes at him. Surprised at the affection the stranger was giving her. "P-Proud," she repeated, though it was hard to think about and really feel that way but perhaps if she reminded herself often that she might start to think it.

She had not moved away from him, her whole body feeling warm. Perhaps she missed that too, intimacy. Still, it did feel a bit strange to get affection from another man. She was not used to it.

Stjornuati had not expected that the closeness would bother her, if only because his own nature was basal, physical even. More often than not, the brothers used body language over options more verbose, though this was likely the first time that the Stormskýli had ever comforted a woman, much less one that was weeping. The texture of her scars against the muscle of his tongue was curious, the taste of tears light and hinted at saltiness. Were he more poetic, he might venture to say that he could even taste her sorrow.

Come, He commanded gently, nudging her so that she might turn to follow him. Once more, he picked his way along the springs, though this time he had a purpose, a destination. Through the steam, he strode, the air curling visibly around the two as Stjornuati looked for a spot clear of steam and fog. There, on the side opposite a larger spring, upwind of the warm waters, the larger wolf stopped, glancing back at her before indicating the sky and the stars that shone down from it.

They watch. Always, from fields of Valhalla. He had lost brothers, comrades, and family along the way, and even now, he could only imagine that some of his kin they had left behind were up there now as well. You see?

Arlette was surprised by the gentleness, and while she first was a bit startled she was quick to relax when the male didn't show ill intentions. She looked at him curiously, his behavior so different but really interesting. Arlette was always an obedient girl, so when he told her to come she automatically followed. She was also curious. The male hadn't given her a reason to not trust him. She followed him quietly, wondering where he would take her.

He looked at the sky, she followed his gaze to the stars. She was reminded of Leta who looked at the stars. "I buried my mate in the ground, how could he go to the skies?,' she asked. The girl was still looking through. Her red eyes scanning for blinking lights that looked like Kaito's eyes. She wondered what he thought of her and her actions. "You really sure they are there? In... Valhalla?"

Her question was fair and though there was a slight barrier between their languages, it was a question he believed could be understood no matter what language it was spoken in. How did they get from here to there, when there was no clear path? His answer, though, was swift and sure. Já. Valkyrja take them from andlát.

He wished then, that she could speak his language, or that he could speak hers. There were many stories he could share with the doe, ones that lifted the spirits when saddened, that reminded the mortals of the world that this was not the last life they would live. Stjornuati, borne of ice and snow and all things wild, wanted to be able to share that sureness with her, the confidence that he knew.

Valkyrja are hermaður women. Ah... Another head tilt before her nosed at her scar gently. Fight? Fighter? Women. They live within Valhalla and bring the dauður home. He, of course, did not share that there were those who did not make it into Valhalla; such darkness was better left for another time.

She frowned as he talked, as the last word was unfamiliar to her. She assumed her believed that someone took them from the ground to the heavens, to the stars. She wanted to believe it so badly that Kaito and her pups were up with the stars, with those lights. But-- Logically it didn't make sense. She did nod lightly, however, not wanting to be rude. It was a nice philosophy for them to looking down at them. He had inspired her with his previous words. Make them proud by living. She intended to do that now.

Arlette nodded. "Warriors, fighters," she confirmed with a nod. "So these warrior women bring them up to the skies? Is that is where you think their home is?," she wondered as she looked up. She liked to think that the death stayed with her. "My family-- They have a different theory. If you want to hear?"

It is where this one knows. Some day, this one too will go. As Solpallur would too. Eventually, they would all go to Valhalla. Well, if they had earned it. He had no doubt that he and his brother had, though. Long had they followed the hringja, and one day they would come into their own. But until then...

Fighters. Warriors. He liked the sound of the word; it was strong, like the ones who bore it. Like Arlette. Doe, yes, but warrior too. Her scars were evidence of that. His ears perked his head turning from the stars to the woman beside him. Já. Learn this one.

Arlette was clueless what the male thought of her. If so she would probably have been flustered by such kind thoughts of her. She dipped her head when he repeated the words, it seemed she taught him something new today. She liked that idea. When he turned his gaze to her she returned it, pausing for a second, taking him in.

"Alright. My family's pack is named Easthollow. To the east. In our territory we have a stone circle,' she explained, she hoped that the male would be able to understand most of it. "No ordinary stones, long and tall stones." She tried to mimic it by standing on her handles and lifting her front paws up. Long and tall.

"When someone dies they are buried by a stone. The stone then becomes a representation of the wolf we lost. We have the Father stone, Mother, Warrior, Maiden, Sister, Pilgrim, and Lost Souls." She was not sure he would know all those terms but he did know warrior now. "The stone represents who they were in life. My aunt died when I got my scars. She got the Pilgrim stone for her remarkable life's journey. My mother thinks the spirits stay in the earth with us, watching over the land. All our meetings are held at the Stone Circle to remember values of the past."

She looked at him, unsure how much he got of that, or how much she had been rambling. She offered him a soft smile. "I don't know what is the truth, but it is what helps us, right? To cope..."

He followed as best he could, listening to the woman weave her tale with a voice that could soothe a crying babe. While the Nordic man had his own spiritual tendencies, he was not so set in his ways that he dashed away what she described. The more he listened, the more Stjornuati found that, in a way, Arlette's beliefs ran parallel to his own in that they honored the dead that moved on to watch over the world and those they left behind.

The smile she offered was taken in with dark eyes, a gaze that softened around the edges. Ice man or not, the female was pleasant — both to spend time with and to look at — and he found himself ruminating over her words, nodding gently in response. For all that he could not understand of her language, he understood the gist and sought to learn from her this night as well.

Your steinar, you say... Warrior, The word was said with a proud, fierce tone, that brought the smallest of grins to his stony maw; he had learned a new word this day and though he felt as though a babe, he reveled in his ability to catch on. Móðir, Faðir, May... Myden? As she had stumbled with his name, so did he stumble with the names of her stones, his brows furrowing in his own frustration. What is this Myden? What did it mean? Was he even pronouncing it correctly?

The male was good company, and a good listener. For the male it was a bit unclear about their stones it seemed. She nodded at warrior. She tipped her head cutely when he spoke some words that she didn't know. But then he spoke it in a way she could understand. "Oh yes, Maiden!," she repeated with a nod. "Uh.. Young female? Female that has not been with male?," she tried to explain to him with a quirk of her lips.

"It is for my little sister, Keoni. She died before she got to live, before a mate. Maiden," she added. She hoped she explained it correctly. She looked at the male with a curious expression. "I hope it was clear," she hummed softly, looking shy for a moment.

Móðir. Mother. Faðir, father. The tilt of her head had not been lost on the Northerner and, as he held no qualms over sharing his language with her, translated the language for her. She had, after all, taught him a word or two as well. Steinn. Stone. Arlette's own explanation served the man well, and his head bobbled in understanding. Mey. Virgin, yes.

He paused and looked at her, wondering if it was her sister who had been lost to the beast that had left such scars on the Valkyrja beside him. This one is He searched for the word, groping in the dark recesses of his mind for the correct way to phrase what he wanted to say. sad for your Keoni. Clarity was no question, and again he nudged her with his nose, another small smile tugging at his lips. Tell me of her.

Arlette tried to repeat the words, she understood now. Mother, father. It sounded a bit a like. Even Stone sounded a bit like her language. She dipped her head when he said virgin. She dipped her head softly, bit flustered at the word. Not sure why. But it was the correct term.

"Sweet," she returned. "I actually didn't know her too well. I was young when she died," she admitted. "Sadder about my mate and stillborn pups," she added softly. "My aunt, and my littermate," she shook her head softly. So much loss. "Cougar. Wild cat." She was not sure if they had those up north. Clay was not technically killed by the cougar but, it was too difficult to explain. Even she didn't know what happened to him.

She battered her eyes at him, clearly still hurt by it.

Wild cat. Fjallaljón.

Devil cats, He rumbled at her, remembering the destruction they had wrought amongst his pack. Her loss was unimaginable. So many had left her behind, a frown overtaking the man's countenance as he regarded her. The pain she exuded was palpable and even Stjornuati would shudder and shake under such a miserable weight. And yet, it was not pity that lingered in his eyes as he met her gaze but an admiration of sorts. Arlette had survived so much and still walked this earth...

You are as of the Goddess, Freyja, He murmured, shifting so that he would sit closer to her and share his warmth with the woman. You have much strength, Arlette. Do not hide this. It was this that drew him to her, pulling him in as though he were a moth and she the flame. A vision of a wolf, with strength and grace to match. There was a tenaticty there, under all that sorrow, he was sure of it.

Arlette nodded in agreement. They were indeed devil cats. She looked before her and missed the admiration in the male's eyes. She thought back at those claws swiping at her, slicing through her skin so easily. She swallowed thickly and shook he heard, literally trying to shake off the thoughts. She was brought back when the male was shifted against her. She turned her head to the side and looked up at him. Only then she saw the admiration, and the fond words about her.

She didn't feel like a goddess, she was compared to one at least. "Freyja?," she asked, wanting to know more about this goddess. Arlette sounded a shaky sigh before nodding softly. It was definitely a different mentality to think of herself in that way. "Thank you for your kindness, Stjor," she spoke then and tipped her muzzle up to give him a lick over his cheek. Briefly her mind thought of Derg, another male she met on her travels who had been so kind and admirable of her as well.

"Are... Are you going to join a pack? One I could visit?,' she asked then. She hoped that she would one day return the favor and extend such kindness to the male when he needed it.

His venture off had been a success—Solpallur was proudly marching back with a raccoon hanging limply from his jaws. It had been a lucky find, having caught the animal unaware as he washed his little paws in a stream, and he was eager to share that success with his brother. Of course, finding Stjornuati was not as easy as it could have been as he trekked back through the hot springs; the damp air sullied the scent.

It was voices instead that led him.

“Bróðir!” His voice was ever coarse and muffled this time by the prize between his teeth. He bristled at the sight of the she-wolf and kept his distance; he had no desire to share his kill with her too, though it was a curious thing that Stjornuati had found himself in the company of someone so decorated in tales of harrowing events. His head canted slightly as he wondered with a look as to who she was, and knew that his brother would explain.

[party crashes]

A low note came from his throat at the contact, a croon, a short song that the women had drawn from him unexpectedly. He had not been touched like that by a women in some time, and even then, it had only been something fleeting and childish.
Clearing his throat, the man answered, unaware that his shadowy companion was yet close. Já. Goddess Freyja is of love and war, battle, Another word to make him hesitate, a careful consideration of how to say it, though the common tongue escaped and failed him. He could have explained but

Bróðir!

The stareater's head turned, unalarmed and unphased; the language alone gave Solpallur's identity away and if one watched, they might see the very tip of his tip thump against the ground a time or two at the other man's approach. Þú hlýtur að hafa heyrt magann minn öskra, He said, a low chuckle following his words before answering the silent prod of his blood brother.

This Arlette. And then he would look to his fair furred companion to give the name of his brother. Solpallur is this one's bróðir. This one and this one's brother search for hringja. It was a tale he had no problem explaining and for a fleeting moment, he thought to offer Arlette a place with them. He could teach her of many things; the stars, the language, the fight, but something stilled his tongue, at least for the moment.

So confused, I was certain I replied to this. Apologies!!!!!

The male explained her the name Freyja. She was a goddess. Arlette never really heard about gods, perhaps from Kaito, he had some god he believed it, right? Would it be this Freyja he believed in? It would be something else to really be compared to that. She didn't feel like a goddess of love and war. She hoped the hear more about it but then another wolf got close to them. He spoke with a coarse but muffled tone. Arlette then saw the dark male, coming from the darkness and carrying a meal. She looked at Stjor but it seems he was familiar with the other.

He spoke a whole sentence in the language she didn't speak. Her red eyes scanned between the two, trying to read their body language. The male didn't seem to like her though. Arlette lowered her head, to show him that she wasn't a threat. Luckily Stjor introduced her. She dipped her head politely and smiled. "Hello, nice to meet you," she hummed. "Brother?" They were just like her and her siblings, a stark contrast between their coat colors. "Hringja?," she asked softly, curious what it meant.

Stjornuati was loose lipped with this one; he had been talking a while, if Solpallur knew him any. But then again they were often drawn to the scarred kith, ever wondering if there were other drengr left to wander the land just as they did. Wayfarers without places to call their own, who toted their skills about and hinged their successes on survival. The brothers had their scars too, but they were not as prevalent as this one, and he did not know whether it was of her own volition she had earned them or if she had been subjected to something else, something far worse.

He continued to clutch the meal between his jaws, his own lips sealed tight around the bloodied fur. Solpallur was never the social one, at least not overly so, and certainly not when his brother was there to do the decisive action of understanding and translating. But the dark-haired hellion was not as poorly tongued as he oft pretended to be; he had his moments where he too could be verbose—at least in comparison to his usual fare of conversation—and smart enough to understand.

But it was easier to let there be a barrier, as often actions spoke louder than words.

His gaze held Arlette tightly, scrutinizing her without entirely meaning to. His default position and expression, the standoffish and turbulent, at best unpredictable. Her inquiry into the hringja was a disquisitive point for him—did she have her own to answer to? To listen for? His brother had been less than forthcoming with information beyond her name, which made him wonder just what all had transpired between them already.

It wouldn’t have been the first time a woman had caught their eye, or at the very least only one of them.