Northstar Vale word of mouth

meant for @Chaudry

he arrives at the edge of unfamiliar territory, the open ground a contrast to forneskja’s heavy pines. snow crunches under his paws with each careful step, and though the chill bites at his old wounds, he holds his head high. the wind carries the scent of a pack—strong, established, watchful.

lifting his muzzle to the pale morning sky, he releases a howl that rings through the still air, a summons meant for the wolves who guard this land. the echo resonates along the borders, carrying the message he bears. he waits then, breath pluming in the cold, collecting himself.

A call comes; one of a wolf he does not recognise. He orders Pala to stay behind; he will go alone. A wolf so bold as to demand his presence is not one he will trust next to the woman carrying his children. For them to remain healthy, he knows well that she must be kept in good condition.

He stalks towards the borders with his tall and muscular frame held high, expression unrevealing and eyes burning.

The stranger is easy to spot, and he approaches the smaller wolf with the sure confidence of one who understands that his place is above the other in this vale. You come to Montagne and ask for audience. He raises an eyebrow. Why?

His social skills are nowhere near his mother's pure charisma. He is curt, straight to the point. He is made to be the fangs and claws, not the voice.

stærk does not flinch beneath the piercing gaze of the larger wolf as he approaches. the authority in his stance is undeniable, his words curt and cutting, but stærk is no stranger to such posturing. he stands firm, though the ache in his limbs and the dull throb of old wounds remind him that he is far from his best. still, his single eye burns with a quiet intensity, one that speaks to a will forged in harsher places.

i come bearing word from forneskja, stærk begins, his voice low but steady, each word measured with precision. he does not offer deference, only the respect afforded to a wolf who stands in their own power. your pack is invited to the union of sólhárr and callyope, hárkonungr and elska of forneskja. their bond will soon be made before the gods, and your presence has been requested as a sign of unity.

Non. The response is short, blunt, and thick with the accent of his home. It is winter, our Matriarche is pregnant. Other women too. They were far too busy this time of year. Those expecting children needed care, and those who were not were the one's running around to ensure that care was given.

Wolves come here, but Montagne does not go. He says, gesturing to the border. Come back in late spring if you wish for us to travel.

He grunts, his mother's scolding suddenly ringing in his ear. 'Be more hospitable!' 'Smile more!' 'At least try to act friendly!' He looks down to the wolf. This vale is my maman's. He states. She likes guests, but she is not here. Left to find a sire. He muses, finding the tradition strange when put into his words. We heard her call not long ago, so she will be back soon. Forneskja can visit for diplomacy. She will be hospitable, give wedding gifts.

Not him, but maman would be. She always was.

stærk’s lip curls, disdain crossing his otherwise stoic expression. this wolf, with his clipped words and self-important tone, grated against him like ice beneath claws. were it not for sólhárr’s name riding on his tongue, stærk would’ve been more than willing to teach this pompous brute some humility—perhaps leave a scar for him to remember the encounter by.

but he doesn’t. instead, he locks his single, searing eye onto the man, pinning him with a gaze that burns cold and sharp. no words follow; he won’t waste his breath. he’ll leave and move on to the next pack in his path.

stærk dips his head—not that he wanted to. his movements are swift as he turns, the ache in his limbs hardly noticeable against the simmering irritation that thrums beneath his pelt. without another glance, he begins his departure, his paws crunching softly against the frost-laden earth.

exit stark

The wolf leaves, and he turns back towards the den site. He cares not for mean looks; they have no power against a wolf who does not care for the holder's opinion.

He has been polite enough, extended the olive branch. If they chose to accept or not did not matter to Chaudry.

It was the rules of the vale, and he had communicated them. Pregnant women staying in the pack was best for their health; why risk it by travelling to a wedding for wolves they did not know?

Chaudry shrugged. Maybe he just did not have the brain for diplomacy.