Nova Peak ζ

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a man and perhaps a woman might well come to join skorpa and @Ayovi upon their slopes.

he was not certain how he felt about it. surely the gathering of others was necessary — he did not want her to be alone in childbed — but he loathed the loss of their glossy little realm, populated only by each other.

skorpa had been hunting the tangle's edge, and a morning of success brought him home at noon with several pelts: one raccoon, one snow duck, and two weasels. he was tired, ready for a midday rest before he took another patrol.

the meat was left behind in varied caches, save the musky reek of raccoon which he did not like, and blood had already clotted on the pelts. leaving them to hang just beyond the cavemouth, skorpa ducked inside, bearskin wrapped to heavy shoulders.

his eyes searched for his wife. "hvad har du set i dag?" the man asked in conversation, though he posed with a smile beside the wall of red ochre.

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She’d harried up the slopes, feeling under siege at every turn, pursued by a vision of that single blue eye— he could force them into capitulation. He could take their mountain.
Worse still is allowing her paranoia to shatter the heart of her husband and their weeks of isolated bliss upon the mount. Ayovi can only give Skorpa a long, aching look before taking a hesitant breath. She tries to drown out her fears with a tight sigh, but it does not matter. The worry is plain in her eyes.
“Rensdyr… ulv. Faust’s ulv.” Her gaze flicks away from the northman's face to his full bounty, clasping a weasel between her jaws to strip hide from flesh.
First they’ll take the river.

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something at once was wrong. ayovi did not gaze at him with love and desire; she did not stand confident at their settleheart. skorpa listened closely, fighting the urge to smile as she spoke in his words.

he had seen the others banding out below them; he had not known his very wife went to face such a host! and besides that, she had found word of faust. "så han har gjort krav på land," skorpa muttered, watching blood trickle in rivuletting drop as ayovi cut away the skin.

this was their home. he would not give it up, not without another bloodied fight. the broad shoulders tensed. "we go faust. skabe— peace." they would not be at such a disadvantage, not while the man knew northern tongue.

"no. not go." restless, he turned to peer out the doorway, down into the snow-covered valleys. "there. call. say 'peace.'" a clumsy conveyance, but this was a conversation best had on neutral ground.

if she wanted to have it at all! skorpa watched her now, keen.

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Skorpa’s voice is deep and confident and in knowing ways soothes his wife’s addled heart. But it is not Faust’s glacier alone she speaks of, and perhaps his settlement worries her the least.
“No— Skorpa. Rensdyr ulv. And Faust’s ulv,” she drops the mustelid. “What happens when they learn lille bjerg? lille antal? They will come for stjernebjerg. This has ske all i fortiden,” she confesses in shaky, broken danish.
She wants peace, but on what grounds do they have to negotiate, small as they are? Her eyes again seek for Skorpa while a fear lodges in her chest like a heavy stone, just above where their children grow.

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she was frightened, but he was so proud of her grasp in northern. a hand extended to clasp her own, first one and then the other. caribou wolf. what did she mean? he clutched for comprehension; had she met two men?

"dette er vores bjerg, og det er enormt," the man murmured first. there were places to go, to hide. to make a stand, to fight.

he realized that he knew nothing of what had come before, and his arms tightened around ayovi. "de skal igennem mine tænder. hvorfor tage, når der kan komme blod ud af deres årer?" confident rambling for he and for her, and at last the eyes search once more. "we bring more here. much wolf. you see."

now; a kiss; "hvor har du set dem?"

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Vores bjeg.
His words are strong. They have passion in them. He is like iron. Or ice. It occurs to the huntress that they are not so vulnerable as she fears. Skorpa knows northern ways. She had seen Faust back off. He does not desire to fight, she believes.
And the caribou chief— he spoke common. Ayovi could communicate with him.
Would they meet? In these aspects she looks to her husband. Neither of them are politically-minded. They wanted only the sanctity of their mountain. But Ayovi saw it was infeasible if they did not become their own power amidst the neighboring clans.
There is easement as she draws her cheek to Skorpa’s chest, savoring the feel of large paws in her own. Recently bathed, and already the man’s pelt festoons in blood. She feels his strength imbue within her.
“På jagtsletter.”
“I will keep watch there. Mig patruljere . See they press no further.”
She has yet to meet the man and his pregnant wife who would make a second settlement here, but already she felt it was within their responsibility to offer protection.

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"jeg tager afsted. ja." even in tenderness his musculature was roused for conflict, for the convergent of those with shared aim — or none.

the wall. his palm against it, thoughtful, not yet turned toward the door. men ayovi." ochre on his claws. "jeg synes, du skal forberede dig på at møde dem."

dots, away from their mountain, six of them. a line drawn beneath. "a folkmoot."

a gathering. their first as the settlehearth of star mountain.

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Ayovi did not want their voices near their home, nor her and Skorpa's names in their mouths. She wanted them gone. They had all come so suddenly and she cannot say why. Some revolution of the spirits, or scents upon the air, wafting.
In Wide Fang bands, there was always a leader. He was not always the largest and he need not be, for he was the one they looked to for instruction in their cruelty.
“Folkmoot,” the huntress repeats. “Ja. Yes.” She glances at Skorpa, warming her expression.
This face, once of practiced contentment, Ayovi would learn.