Nova Peak β

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something lost in translation. something gained. his strength returned even as he fed himself grasses and grubs, and once, the carcass of a young bear too weak for the winter snows, the meat of which he offered several times to @Ayovi. skorpa wore that tattered skin now, flung over his shoulders as if it were a second skin.

due north of them was a lone mountain. his stiffened gait carried the exile in exploration. "bjerg," he said of its single peak, stride lengthening as he searched through the frozen air for any scents which might proclaim its possession.

his smile was seeking when he glanced toward ayovi. did she like this one?

---

Beauty shone upon every knoll; up each flocked pine and along the creek where she ran her tongue. Ayovi marches the hills, setting her footprints across the rigid winterscape and searching out each cave and grotto. She’d learned to step high, so her coat would not catch on every twig— the result of which was a snowy trot that trailed after Skorpa.
His north-word crawls across her ears and she lopes closer to hear it more clearly.
“Bjerg.” The huntress had begun a habit of echoing his tongue, though she couldn’t be certain of any true definition; only what it meant to her within the context of their conversations.
Bjerg means mount, she decides, and tromps beside the red man in a giddy lushness. Bjerg might also mean home. Ayovi desires to see it more closely.
Her nose scents the air for pack, and gathering nothing, lifts her voice in song.
I am here to join you!
Her ears prick, listening for calls above the gathering winds.

---

"hvorfor råber du? det er bare os her," skorpa chuckled. but soon his voice rose to twine warmly with her own, in case there were indeed denizens of this mountain who had not yet heard them.

the clawed broadness of his paws soon carried the tall exile up to a lower slope, and then onto a slick-frozen path that wound almost directly upward.

empty.

he tasted deer-spoor at the base of this path and grunted to himself in northern, chunnering about nothing in particular; skorpa had not yet realized his misleading of ayovi had happened at all, no matter how inadvertent, and hunger was a poor polish for wisdom. he craved blood and solitude and safety, some unconscious hours of sleeping that would restore his body further.

---

Ayovi stops, silver shoulders pulling taut, tensed in wait and listening for that wild music. Again hearing nothing but the quake of leaves and Skorpa’s snuffling. Disquiet sets a muted bound upon her hunger, though she had not taken a true meal since the hind, and the northerner had only fed himself on the meager bear-meat which the huntress had refused.
She lags behind, staring up at the vast, pinnacle with dissolving spirit. It was beautiful. It was empty. Lonely.
Deer scent goads her senses but Ayovi cannot bring herself to trail it. Skorpa whisks ahead, warrior’s body conforming to a hunter’s amble. Is this where they part? He’d done what she’d asked of him, led her safely to the white mountain. She approaches with a low croon and draws beside the northman, studying him a moment in the serene solitude before angling her body back toward the foothills, hoping it is enough to convey her intentions.

The Taiga was a wild place.

A distant song of a lonely spirit replies. A howl on the clawing wind.

I am here.

---

so. she would go. he drank in the sight of the land spread below, then of regnvand. there was nothing for him on this mountain but there might be more for her to seek in the wild stretches of taiga still to be explored.

or did she wish him to come with her?

skorpa's eyes searched but did not press; they turned to a narrowed expression as a woman's voice floated in answer for ayovi.

a rough smile. now was there a new choice to make?

skorpa was silent. a man's voice might well silence the one upon the quiet mountain, especially in such a season. this he understood, and the ground here was not his to claim.

---

That answer comes at last in a voice filtering down from the hoodoo’s steep ravines. Snowfall warms along the mount’s eastern slopes, such is the thawing Ayovi wears upon her breast as she glances wild-eyed to Skorpa. She springs ahead, up the cloven footpaths, following the call to the mountain’s high seat.
Now she pushes from deep frozen drifts, raining in crystals out along a flat-topped summit where a single wolf waits. The huntress’ pace slows to a roll, eyes sweeping up over the woman then to the surroundings in anticipation of a pack— hope her currency still.
Ayovi settles all except an innocuous wave of tail, gentle eyes greeting the pale stranger where she stands black-lit by azure skies.

Moon Runner’s long verse was like ancient birdsong. Like wide rivers. Like tall peaks. Breathless, to show her strength and acumen. Wordless, to show her heart.

I am here! I am here! I am here! Its cadence drummed.

Her spirit did not know why she replied, only that she should. Once a dispersal who reveled in solitude, now a creature who sought connection. She had been inspired by the sunlight, whose minutes counted more numerous every day. There would be others like herself, the spirit felt. Wandering souls. Maybe Sister, Faraway Shadow, or Icemelt were among them.

Then, a snow-faced stranger broke the silhouette of the high mountain scrim. A physical message to her long-distance dial. Moon Runner’s weight leaned forward, ears cupped. Excitement caused her cotton-colored tail to wave when daylight glinted in the skycolor of the other woman’s eyes.

You are here! her spirit said as she loped forward, wishing to learn the other's scent. Her amber eyes glance to the woods beyond. Had she not sang in duet? Did another accompany her?

There were no others upon the peak. Not a trace of wolf odor. Moon Runner was, and had been, alone.

---

a waving ribbon of white, ayovi swept up into the invitation of this cold mountain. skorpa followed at a leisurely distance, protective but somehow not wishing to give that appearance lest regnvand came to feel he wished to press advantage.

another thing unadmitted was that skorpa did not remember the last time any had touched him with  such care. in the manner of a half-wild dog which knew only the kicking and shouts of its master, he had climbed out from under a proverbial table not to blows but to a taste of nurturing. the remembered moment came with a recollection of that exquisite and searing pain; ayovi pressing demon's sickness from his angry flesh.

when she went away, what would he be?

where there was one drengr, more would gather. surely there was a settlement somewhere; skorpa knew he would be able to find such a place. but somehow, amazingly, the concept of returning to be among filthied brutish lewd rutting men like himself did not hold the same appeal as the vast wild skies and ayovi running beneath them.

when he wended his tall body and its bearskin among the trees, breaking among their number to emerge among the talus and the scrubbed grass, regvand was approached in interested manner by another snowspot wolf. annoyed that healing demanded a humiliating amount of rest, skorpa settled with a mulish grunt against a spruce-trunk, the bearpelt sliding off his shoulder in a way that frustrated him further. he grappled with the hide but not for long; skorpa flung it with unnecessary violence and velocity away from himself into a nearby drift, a show of anger that comforted his emotional unavailability with a further message that ayovi had his protection from whoever the stranger meant to be.

and then the man sat down again, and then lay down beneath the spruce, having completely winded himself and hurt his belly enough to now be nauseous.

---

The woman’s arrant joy allures Ayovi’s feet, enthusiasm vibrant in her own soft titterings, in gentle nudges. She is alone on this sheer peak, the huntress scents her isolation. But for one moment let them drink the blue, grand air together, and let Ayovi embrace the ivory’s shoulders as she might a sister of Red Creek. There is kindness in her gaze.
And she feels him there, at her back. He has not left. What strangeness with the realization is paired relief— that the northman had become a sort of comfort in these wilds. Shifting from white marble withers, her eyes intensify in the silent distance of his sanctity. He is downed again, and for a reason. Forceful winds blur the edge of red-coat as Ayovi steps tentatively towards him, then glances back to snowwoman in an introductory manner. Yet she does not invite her near, vexation in the man’s face rebuffing the huntress’ own advances.
“I’m Ayovi. He is Skorpa,” tender eyes smile for snowwoman before combing the northman with worry.

In that moment, Moon Runner felt they spoke the same language.

They reunited like old friends. The flora of distant peaks left traces on the the woman’s hair. A journey. The masculine scent of another was there, too. A mate?

Cloud Dancer, the spirit named her.

Then, the sound of crackling evergreen twigs caught Moon Runner’s attention. Over Cloud Dancer’s shoulder was a grizzly beast slumped against a a tree. From him was thrown a reeking skin into the snow.

Moon Runner’s neck stretched out as her nose inspected a downwind draft. A repulsive odor wafted from the man and caused her to recoil. She ducked her head like an owlet as her tongue passed over her nose, suspicious.

Though she could not understand the concept of language, Moon Runner could interpret Cloud Dancer’s concerned glances. She noticed, however, that Cloud Dancer kept a healthy distance from the man. This was difficult to parse. Were they pack mates? What bound them together? The spirit wondered.

Moon Runner’s ears turned in thought. She dared not advance towards the odorous male, but it was evident he was in great pain. She thought back to the time of her own illness… How Wise Father sought help from another clan. How she she had been given new grass to chew. How Wealda and Wise Mother shepherded her from a safe den to drinking waters.

Moon Runner turned and lifted a paw, as if her spirit said follow me. She knew of an old den nearby where they could rest.

---

slitted eyes watched ayovi's approach; her words were in the common-tongue he did not know, and he rose to one elbow. her companion was young and hale, pretty in the way of those glowing with health. from where he hunkered as a gargoyle in the snow-midden, he tasted no packscent upon the air.

no words emitted from the newcomer. strange. heaving himself to unsteady feet, a loud snort obscured skorpa's face with a gust of steam.

he would follow, and jutted his chin toward ayovi in hopes of communicating this.

all over! all over, that intense crush of pain, a fatigue that abated none despite his resting and consumption. it hurt his pride to be so weak.

the man would not speak at all, his silence ironic in the similarity presented by the alabastrine stranger.

---

No words come, not from either of them, and the huntress finds she does not mind this quiet. The snowwoman is alone, but she wends for them a path which Skorpa obliges. Ayovi should not have felt such relief in his choice. Their's was a tentative alliance, but would he reveal his violence to this snowy woman?
A girl alone, Ayovi wonders if the golden eyes will tell of sorrows, of loss and unspoken pains. She gingers forth behind her, through pines, along flowing streamlets, and the only voice is high in the air where the wild birds call.

The broken wolf acquiesced.

He must be in great pain, the spirit felt as its vessel’s amber eyes studied the weeping scabs upon his head, whithers, and belly. Yet the grisly man was stoic and did not reveal his agony.

Cloud Dancer looked ready to follow and so Moon Runner showed them a path.

She knew this region of the Taiga by heart. Born upon Redtail Rise, any territory triangulated between Nova Peak, Felltree Marsh, and Phoenix Maplewood was clearly mapped out in her mind. Blood Spot and Rolling Thunder had once claimed this mountain… but a terrible blight had snuffed out the family’s new flame. An invader. A strange illness. But Moon Runner would never know the full story of their grievous tragedy. Only that Chipmunk (@Ruckus) had been the only survivor.

Some time after, she had happened upon the den Bloodspot had dug. Now, it would have a new purpose.

Their pace was slow. Silent. They walked together.

They came upon the burrow. The wild white wolf glanced to Cloud Dancer. Then, to Grim Tooth. The only medicine she could offer was the opportunity of rest. And he needed plenty of it.

---

this quiet gnawed at skorpa. ayovi and the stranger shared something he did not, a common tongue. hearing them speak at all had plunged skorpa into a fetid headspace. but doggedly he came along, limping; he would go back for his bearskin another time, leave it to freeze where he had thrown it.

silent snow knew these places. even in his pain skorpa saw how surefooted she appeared to be, how without preamble she brought he and ayovi to a wolf's den.

long inhales of stale air suggested it was unused, that it had stood empty for some time. his shoulders scraped soil from the walls as he pushed himself inside, curling into the darkness until only his eyes glowered from those depths. "should you choose to leave, regnvand, i ask only that you call."

his words were for the rainstorm; skorpa was aware that she still would not understand, and so speaking the words aloud was a comfort to him alone.

---

last for me <33

Somewhere along the way, the northman had become her charge; her project. She watched him bed down slowly, the tell of pain on his face evidence of a greater suffering he kept well hidden.
The flora of this land remained a larger mystery to the plains wolf, and she was not convinced it would help Skorpa even now.
“There is little more to be done. I believe he needs rest more than anything,” she explains on an approach to the snowwoman. She lingers for a response that does not come and tries once more in her numic tongue, “you are generous to share your den with travellers. Are you hungry? You’re hungry. I will hunt for us all, ok?”
But there is no recognition in the beautiful, bright-eyed, snowy girl. Gently the huntress scents her breath, pushing a curious nose into the thick fur of her throat. And like the others, Ayovi gives her a name in her own native language: Nemage. Sister.
“You dare put a paw on her and I’ll strangle you myself with that ratty fur you like so much,” Ayovi warns, stepping through the threshold of the shaded den that now held her northman in its sheltered crook. “You’ll be all right.” She gives him a concerned glance, and a second for Nemage, before starting back the way they’d come, nose hunting for that cloven trail from earlier.
Skorpa’s bearskin lay forgotten in the freeze. She drags it up over her shoulders, cloaking herself. The smell makes her gag, and it makes her smile. She continues on down the mountain.

Grim Tooth shrouded himself miserably within the den’s darkness.

Moon Runner and Cloud Dancer share small ministrations. Then, there is an exchange.

She departed to hunt, Moon Runner’s spirit believed.

Ever a Treow Moon Runner seated herself beside the den to watch over Grim Tooth and await for Cloud Dancer’s return.