Chimera Fields rannsókn

@Cicero Dvořák

sólhárr moved through the frostbitten fields of chimera, the cold air sharp against his fur as his golden eyes swept the horizon. his steps were deliberate, each paw pressing firmly into the snow as he traced the faint trails of prey and patrols. scouting these stretches had become second nature—a way to clear his mind while keeping his pack secure.

but today, the wind carried something unfamiliar. he paused, his broad frame still as he lifted his muzzle to the air. there it was: the faint, distinct scent of a stranger. a man, a loner, and certainly not of forneskja.

hm, he rumbled to himself, the sound low and thoughtful, as he adjusted his course to follow the scent. the tracks were faint, partially obscured by the snow’s restless shift, but sólhárr had no trouble keeping the trail.

he moved with the quiet confidence of a wolf born to these lands, each step bringing him closer to the source. his muscles coiled with readiness, his posture steady but not aggressive—yet. a loner this close to chimera’s borders could mean many things, and sólhárr would know soon enough.

as he crested a small rise, his gaze narrowed, scanning the field for movement. his tail lifted slightly, a silent warning to any who might be watching: the northman was here, and he did not take kindly to uninvited guests.

@Solharr

Nothing seemed more intimidating than trying to acclimate to new, unfamiliar lands. Cicero had arrived into the territory days ago, half-starved and numb. The winter here was much more frigid and biting, more tiresome. The cold weather had seeped into his bones, and had caused his weak left hind leg to seize and ache. It was a dull pain at first, but with each mile put behind the outlander, it only grew more insistent. 

He couldn't hunt, not when he could hardly even run. His side was sunken in, dark fur sculpted against his ribcage, hollow and meek. Pathetic. How embarrassing it was to scrounge for scraps like some mutt. It reminded him all too well of the slums he'd left back in Saros. 

"Havnos!" The foreign curse was sharp, hissed. His leg had given out, causing him to nearly stumble and wind with a maw full of snow. Muscles ached with tension, and Cicero was forced to rest his haunches in the soft snow. His head hung, expression pinched into one of pain, or perhaps annoyance. 

Before he could relax, the cold wind brought a scent to his nose. A man, no less a stranger. His hackles rose on instinct, though it hardly made him seem any larger. With a dejected sigh, he turned to face the incoming breeze, his eyes sharp as he scanned the horizon. It would be just his luck, to get into a scuffle with a lame leg.

sólhárr emerged from the white horizon like a shadow cut from the stone of the mountain itself. his golden eyes bore down on the figure seated in the snow, sharp and assessing. the stranger’s ribs were a latticework beneath dark fur, his frame sunken and weak. a pathetic sight, perhaps, but sólhárr didn’t let his expression betray pity—only curiosity, edged with caution.

you got nerve, sólhárr said, his voice low and steady, the northern accent carving through the cold air like a blade. dragging yourself so far into the open, in this state.

his steps were measured, deliberate, as he closed the distance, stopping just out of reach. the scent of hunger and pain clung thickly to the loner, and sólhárr’s gaze flicked briefly to the weakened leg before returning to meet the man’s eyes.

who are you, and what brings you here? he asked, his tone clipped, offering neither aggression nor warmth. his posture remained strong, his stance unyielding but not overtly hostile. for now, he was simply a sentinel, guarding the outskirts of forneskja—and waiting for an answer.

@Solharr

the man paints an image of power, confidence, everything cicero is not. his stomach tightens with unease, his lips curl into a frown. or perhaps a grimace—it was suiting, given he did not enjoy the larger man's tone. his scent carried the promise of others, though, a pack. 

he'd play nice to save his hide. "no nerve, just...necessity." cicero mused humorlessly, his eyes narrowed as they tracked the man's heavy movements. "i am in no state to move further. i take it these are your lands then?"

the stranger's heavy accent is peculiar. not a tongue he'd ever come across, and perhaps it was curiosity that drove him to speak again with the typical sharpness of his tongue. "cicero is the name. i am...how do you say it? lost. and obviously, i am no threat." he paused, his breath a cloud around his maw. 

"if you wish to chase me off, please give me a moment. less you plan to carry me off, stranger."

he loomed over the smaller male, his lip curling slightly to reveal the glint of teeth. the impish man’s words carried a sharpness, but sólhárr was unimpressed. the scent of desperation clung to him, and while his humor might mask it, it did little to change the reality of his situation.

the northerner took a step closer, his broad frame casting a shadow over cicero. cicero, he repeated, the name sounding heavy and foreign on his tongue. his teeth clicked together audibly as he grumbled low in his throat, his gaze raking over the smaller male’s sickly form. sólhárr. hárkonungr et forneskja.

you weak, sólhárr said bluntly, his accent thick as the words rolled out, unbothered by their bluntness. his head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing. but… skills? he asked, the broken common tongue carrying an edge of curiosity. what… you do?

he didn’t expect much, but even the smallest spark could be shaped into a fire, given the right fuel. his gaze remained fixed on cicero, waiting to see what kind of answer the fragile-looking man would offer—or if he’d crumble under the weight of the question.

@Solharr

cicero's expression twisted into one of mild disgust. not only is this beast brutish, but lacking manners and respect of personal space, it seemed. a growl threatened to build in his throat. he swallowed it—he was in no position to fit, especially not when he'd surely lose. so he bit his tongue, his eyes sharp as he averted his gaze. 

respectfully. submissively. this man, as irritating as he was shaping up to be, could quite possibly be his salvation. how dreadful. 

he almost laughed—humorlessly, of course—when the man called him weak. he'd been called much worse by far worse. "you're an observant one, aren't you?" he nearly sneered. thankfully, he's able to keep his wits, less he lose his head. 

the name he understood, but the rest? it was lost on him. all he could assume was that forneskja was his pack, and he was a figure of power. "pleasure to meet you, sólhárr. please tell me what language it is you speak. it is...unknown to me." 

skills. cicero's lips pulled into a thin line, his brows momentarily pinched. there was an ache in his chest, dull but one that threatened to blaze into an inferno. he used to be a brilliant scholar, a healer...but now? he was nothing. a nobody, yet again. 

but then the thought struck him—no one in these lands knew of his past, his failures, his loss and grief. in these lands, he was but a piece of clay to mold into whichever shape he see fit. he could become someone again. 

so he white-lies. "i was a healer. long ago, but i was a talented one." he stated with a tilt of his chin. it'd been long since he last even picked an herb, but he could tap into that knowledge yet again.

sólhárr stood silent for a moment, his golden eyes narrowing as he considered cicero’s words. the man’s submission was clear, though it came laced with a sharpness sólhárr neither missed nor cared to address. what mattered was his willingness to follow, and the claim of a healer’s skill was enough to tip the scale. norse.

his deep voice rumbled as he finally spoke, the broken common tongue wrapped in the harsher cadence of his native norse. you come. forneskja. he gestured with a tilt of his head, indicating the path he would lead cicero on. you heal. in... heimtré. the word, heavy with meaning in his language, carried the weight of shelter, safety, and the sacredness of the pack’s hearth.

sólhárr’s gaze remained steady, piercing through cicero as if weighing the truth of his claim. you stay, he added simply, his tone leaving no room for argument. earn place. show... healer.

he wondered if cicero wanted him to carry him.

@Solharr

silver eyes followed the path the Goliath wanted him to follow, and his brows lifted in surprise. just moments ago he'd been nothing but a vagrant, an outlander. useful and pitiful. and now, sòlhàrr was demanding he follow him back to his pack. to learn their ways, to prove himself. he could hardly believe it—the second chance he'd always wanted, a new beginning. 

it'd all come so suddenly. sòlhàrr was not suggesting he follow, though. it was decisive. a decision cicero couldn't turn a blind eye too. this could be his redemption. with a decisive nod, the smaller wolf rose gingerly to his feet, careful to how much weight he applied to that lame leg. 

"lead the way, sólhárr."

sólhárr cast a steady glance over his shoulder, amber eyes sweeping over cicero with a mix of scrutiny and resolve. the smaller wolf was frail, limping, and ragged, but not broken. there was something in him—hidden beneath the layers of wear and weakness—that spoke of potential.

follow, he commanded simply, his voice a low rumble of authority. he turned, his powerful frame cutting through the snow as he led the way deeper into forneskja's domain. the air grew thicker with the scent of pine and earth, the towering trees enclosing them like the ribs of some ancient beast.

as they approached the heart of the pack’s territory, sólhárr slowed, his gaze flicking to cicero to ensure the man kept pace. the sound of the máni river grew louder, its steady rush a constant presence in the lands of forneskja. at last, they came upon the entrance of hometree. though he did not pass through it. this sacred place. only women.

sólhárr stopped. the golden light of the rising sun spilling through the branches above. he turned to cicero, his expression as unyielding as the stone that shaped the cliffs. seek the seiðkona, he said, his tone firm but not unkind. white sylph. she will treat you.

he paused, his gaze sharp as it bore into cicero’s. prove yourself here. you are given chance. do not waste it.

with that, sólhárr nodded toward the heart of the hometree, where his wife, callyope, often lingered. her presence would soothe and mend, but it was up to cicero to show he was worthy of forneskja's sanctuary. without another word, sólhárr turned, his massive frame moving away to leave the smaller wolf to his new path.

@Solharr

the journey into the heart of forneskja was quick. merciful for the smaller of the two men, as they strode side by side. the trees seemed to swallow the path whole, until they tapered out and revealed a clearing. it was vast, important. cicero had never been one to feel...intimidated, but to step foot onto lands so sacred to those around him, when he knew nothing of their faith...

it perturbed him. but alas, he would learn. a faithless man could always come to the light. he would learn their ways, their cultures, for now, they were his, too. he found himself staring up in awe at the sprawling home tree. he nearly stepped into the hearth, only to backtrack when sólhárr mentioned that only the women may enter. 

he could respect that. cicero took a seat, tilted his chin up in order to meet the man's gaze. "thank you, sólhárr. i will do right by forneskja, that i will promise." he'd never been a poet with words, less spilling his hearts content, but he hoped his gratefulness shone through regardless. 

now alone, he took a deep, steadying breath. his chance for redemption, his new home...if only palis and his mother could see him now. he'd make them proud, or so he hoped. 

end to the thread!