Tuktu Hinterlands more, give me more

@Meadow Vague on location and date. Probably directly after Solpallur/Meadow thread

In the sun he reclined, basking in the warmth that it provided as he set about cleaning bloodied paws and maw. His kill -- sizeable for a loner -- lay off to the side, unfinished and waiting for his brother to return. And return he did, another wolf in tow. Brows lifted imperceptibly, susrprised and inquisitive to this turn of events, though he did not expect much in the way of answers. Solpallur never had been a talkative creature, and proved this as he walked near with nary a word. A brief pass of his nose in his sibling's fur before his attention turned to their third.

Liver colored eyes skimmed the girl's form before settling on her face to watch her mannerisms as the dark male left them to attend whatever business he felt fit. Þetta er óvenjulegt fyrir hann. Words meant for the male in question, should he still be in earshot. Halló. Ég er Stjörnuáti. You?

The chilled wind brushed past her cheeks, causing her to shiver slightly despite the warmth provided by the sun above. Each step she took felt surreal—a part of her telling her to simply slip away from the large shadow’s sight before the other shoe dropped. Soon, he would realize her survival was by pure luck alone—surely, he would realize she held no true merit and seek to leave her, much like everyone else.

The quake in her soul was felt in her bones, but onward she trudged, trying to remain impassive on the outside despite her inner turmoil.

Her mind drew a blank when Solpallur drew her closer to whom she assumed was his brother. As dark as the rake was, his companion was pale, and she blinked her pumpkin eyes, chewing at the inside of her cheek in quiet thought.

Her dark shadow exchanged words with the other fellow and left—and she found herself being investigated by the dark-eyed wolf. He spoke in the same tongue as the wolf who had found her—and while the little dove was stupid by no means, she surely did not understand his words nor recognize his name as an introduction, and so she focused only on what she thought she recognized—a hello.

“Hi,” she returned, ears sliding back to her skull as her muzzle tilted lower in acknowledged submission.

It was a few moments after her greeting that Stjornuati figured out that she had not understood anything he had said. He found this especially curious, and eyed her with some interest before he attempted again. Nafn? Name? It was still habit to speak his birth language, but it also gave him the benefit of perhaps getting more and more used to the idea of translating his own words.

A gesture was made to indicate himself. Me, Stjörnuáti. He would try again, eyeing her levelly. You?

As soon as they had found Stjornuati, his attention had shifted to the kill he had laid out. There had been little point in introducing one wolf to another—his brother was perfectly capable of drawing his own conclusions from details and launching his own investigations. Which of course, Stjornuati wasted no time in doing such a thing either, far more interested in the pretty redhead than what Solpallur might have been getting up to.

He tore at the tender flesh of their shared prey, pulling a long strip off to gnaw at. It clung at the end, the very event a nuisance that was comical in the background when it finally snapped free. He didn’t move far from the kill after that to settle in and chew, though his orientation kept the redhead and his brother in view as he watched their interaction.

“Hún skilur ekki tunguna,” he said through a mouthful of food, chiming in a moment too late. Stjornuati didn’t need to be told that Solpallur did not speak hers that well either, but at least his brother was more of the omniglot in their group. It made him the talker by default, and Solpallur was resigned to grumbling commentary from what he could pick out and understand.

There was an awkward pause—his unnerving dark eyes studying her, waiting, and she realized she had missed something in translation. Or, rather, the lack of translation. The pale wolf tried again—and the midnight rake remained in the background, muttering something in his foreign tongue, munching away contently as she remained on the rather intense end of a greeting from his brother.

“Name,” he pressed, and her lips formed a small ‘o’ of understanding, and then a furious blush of embarrassment. He repeated what she now understood to be his name—would she even be able to repeat that? It was beautiful—rugged. Like him. His eyes drew her closer, her brows arching as he pressed her further for her calling. “Meadow,” she whispered, clearing her throat after, trying to swallow her nervous habits.

“Syoorn-noo-wah-ty..?” She tried—what better way to leave the most terrible first impression than absolutely butchering the man’s name?

Meadow. An ear flicked as he thought, eyes the color of guts strung from a tree moving from her to take in their whereabouts. The small clearing they were in was certainly no meadow and so, he discerned this to be her name. Engi, He repeated in his own language in a confident tone.

Her pronunciation of his name was... Well. His muzzle wrinkled slightly, though no anger writ itself across his face. Perhaps he would make it easier on her. Stjör. Styor. Stee-yor. His nose pointed directly to her, repeating her name again (his name for her, rather). Engi. A motion to himself, Stjor, and then a final motion back to his brother. Verkur í rassinum. Hurt butt. A low, throaty laugh left him as he moved his head just enough to see Sol and grin at him.

Meadow? Meadow?

Solpallur narrowed his eyes at her; that wasn’t the name he expected at all. Meadow was a place, not a name. Of course, Engi sounded a bit better in his ears than Meadow. But everything sounded better in their tongue, as archaic as it was unknown in where it had come from so many generations ago. They spoke a smattering of languages in truth, each one a bit different from the last. The common tongue of this part of the world, however, it was the most difficult to master and he grappled with it even now, even when Stjornuati provided crude translations.

A grumble left him, his words sharp at Stjornuati’s out of reach backside: “Það er nafn þitt, þú ert með sáran rass.” And yet for all the ribbing he could receive from his brother, it did little to take away from his pound of flesh meal. Stjornuati’s time would come soon enough—right now he had the task of educating their little Engi.

“Mér líkar betur við rauðhærða,” he went on childishly, grasping the meat chunk between his paws to pull at it again. “Er hún ekki falleg? Eins og þessi eina stelpa sem við þekktum áður, sú ósvífna.” Surely he did remember that one, but maybe not. It had been a long time, he thought.

She waited—there was no attempt to her name, and instead, one word was given: Engi. A translation, perhaps?

The crinkle of his muzzle bespoke to her of distaste of her pronunciation. Their language was beautiful—she felt completely inadequate, trying to repeat it in the same manner it fluidly came from their own tongues. “Stjor,” she spoke more slowly now, focusing for the moment on saying his name properly as it rolled from her tongue.

And then when he motioned to her and repeated something—Engi—did she understand that he was bestowing a new name upon her. ‘Meadow,’ was seemingly a name not leaving their lips, and she felt a furrow on her rust-coloured brows as she considered this. “Engi,” she confirmed, wondering that if she argued it, they would even pay heed to her.

What she didn’t understand was the conversation that occurred between the two—did the intimidating rakes have sore butts? Was that simply part of their language?

She remained quiet—for a stolen moment—before deciding to continue with this strange introduction. Her muzzle swung to the dark wolf who spoke now, her tail curling idly to his haunch. “Name?”

Engi. Meadow. Perhaps that would clear some of the confusion on her face, though surely that wasn't helped by the way Solpallur rattled off his churlish response. The pale man's grin only widened as he appraised the girl from his brother's perspective, noting the color of her fur and eyes. He could see why she stood out to his dark companion.Þessi er flottari. Líkar þér vel við hana?

He did not wait for an answer.

Solpallur, He would answer Engi, eyes full of mirth. bróðir of mine, how say... He thought about it further before continuing, sticking his nose likely where it did not belong. Enjoy you? Like? Like you, He confirmed again.

His gaze shifted to Stjornuati then, staring him down as he shifted between conversations with fluidity. And then he said what he said, and Solpallur realized he had reached the point where he had heard enough. Another grumble, low and deep in his chest followed after his brother's words.

And then he turned away with his meal, his back to the pair.

He would ignore them until he thought better of it.

Rumbled words she did not recognize—the feral gravel within their vocals likened to a soothing growl, and her mind could only repeat: Engi. Engi. Was this a chance of rebirth? A mistake? Fate?

They spoke to one another, and her fiery eyes darted between them both, both ears flicking uncertainly on her delicate crown. It was then the pale storm responded with the name of the dark raven, she she felt amusement twitch at the corner of her lips. “Sol,” she replied, determined to not butcher this ones name. He seemed as if he would be less forgiving of it.

She hadn’t expected the dark eyes of mirth that met her own to be followed with words such as ‘enjoy’ and ‘like you.’

Naturally, the potential of their words far surpassed what she believed to ever be possible, and so she assumed he meant he found her a potential companion—thus inviting her back to them. “I enjoy him too,” she offered, naivety radiating from her like a red flag.

A laugh rumbled and rattled his chest, looking to the girl with eyes full of mirth and a knowledge that seemed to exceed her age. Go to Sol, Engi. Go to Sol and enjoy his company. She would learn, in time, what Stjornuati meant. Or, she would not. A female's attention was not foreign to either of the boys, though it was a much rarer thing for them to show such attention in return. Still, another body for a time would not hurt.

Fade.