Neverwinter Forest living on a promised word

the morning is thick with a cool mist as ezra leaves the heartwood behind, knowing that severing that cord was the only way he'd truly leave his place of chosen isolation. he seeks to search for @Anselm and @Gideon now in earnest, not sure if they would linger where he'd parted with them.

it feels like an ouroboros of a journey that begun when he'd embarked upon with his mother ... before. before she'd gotten sick and God had stolen her from him.

he was either a snake swallowing its tail in an endless loop, or simply a young man being a masochist because the hurt is the only way he knows he is alive. but the heroes thrived in tragedy, did they not? at least, this is what ezra tells himself. saints suffered, it was why they had became saints. enduring endless suffering in their path to divinity, to taste holiness.

and ezra is desperate to taste it. to dine upon the golden ambrosia of the gods.

his steps slow as the scent of a pack grows stronger; a stark contrast to the earthen and pine smell that the mist draws from the sodden ground and pine trees. he, wrapt in his thought, moved closer to their borders than he'd intended to. his steps stop, his fur damp and sticking to him in places where the mist collected. he gives a coat a shake, for all the good it did.

he deliberates for a moment, golden gaze of burning twinsuns stares at the neverwinter forest through the invisible barrier of scent markings. he doubts his father and brother had come this way, but it was worth asking at least. so, he tilts his head back and lets out a howl, announcing his presence at their borders.

the call drags him from half-sleep.
he rises slow, shoulder stiff from rest, but limbs still heavy with strength. a shake of his pelt sends moss and fragments of hare-fur scattering from his den. steam hisses from his nostrils as he steps into the cool dawn mist.
it is a short ways from where his den carved deep into the tunglhjarta. he limps his way, eyes searching in the cool dawn, squinting briefly past the mist and fog that permeated like a shawl against the forest. it is there at the border he finds a young man, pale of coat with fiery accents.
raedwulf only watches for a long moment, brown eyes flat and unreadable beneath furrowed brow. his broad frame blocking the narrow path between trees.
then—
hwæt eart þū?

the man that greets him is broad shouldered and draped in a pelage of rock meeting sky with touches of soft earth. though ezra isn't small by any measure of the word, he feels small beneath the titan's gaze; though he is not sure if it is the titan's size or the stony disposition that ezra gleams from his assessment as if the man were truly carved from mountain rock.

ezra's body language is neutral, if not deferring: he is a rogue at the door step of an unknown pack, after all. there were certain laws of nature that were just followed, regardless. and seeing as ezra valued his life, he was very much inclined to follow them.

the man speaks and ezra's mind draws a blank, unable to make any sort of sense of the foreign tongue that he hears.

er, ezra hesitates, brow furrowing in turn. do you speak common?

the boy speaks. raedwulf understands none of it, not truly—but he knows a question when he hears one. tone rising, hands open, posture careful. the way a wanderer speaks when they know they’re not on their own land.
his gaze lingers on the boy’s face a moment longer, then he shifts his stance, steady as stone. no threat in it, but no softness either.
raedwulf shakes his head once. ne. then, the saxon taps a paw to his chest. raedwulf, he says. then he gestures with a tilt of his head toward the trees beyond. into the wildwood. into the pack’s heart.
solharr, he proclaims the name of the chieftain, turning gaze back to the flame-accented wolf. hē is ealdor forneskja.
then, he turns suddenly to walk further into the deep woods. looking back at the man, an invitation to follow. cume.

though the word is not one that ezra knows, he recognizes that it means 'no', made easier by it's similarity to the word and the gesture that the northman offers. it is spoken moments before a name is offered, ezra's burning gaze of twinsuns watching the motion. it is an effort to communicate despite the painfully obvious language barrier ... and fills ezra with the tug of a chord to follow suit.

ezra, he touches his own paw to his chest, though it occurs to him moments later that perhaps it might be better to use some sort of moniker. the idea is moot but pushed aside nevertheless. it wasn't as if anselm and gideon would know a moniker and it was his father and brother he searches for.

the man speaks again, offering him another name and what ezra can only assume is the name of the pack that has lain claim to the neverwinter forest. forneskja. a brutal sounding name to ezra's untrained ear.

he is invited inside the borders and despite every instinct within him screaming to reject it, ezra follows. not out of trust but out of curiosity.

as the boy gives his name, raedwulf’s head dips—short, acknowledging. ezra. it is a soft name for a sharp-eyed man. he watches as the boy hesitates, then steps forward. instinct says not to trust, that much is clear in his gait—but he comes anyway. that is enough.
they move in silence at first, raedwulf leading down narrow paths, his stride limping slightly from old pain and fresh ache, but unbroken. nwhen they near the first signs of pack life—scattered scents, old trails, the whisper of hearthfire in the distance—raedwulf halts.
he calls for @Solharr.
then turns eye to ezra. wē bidiaþ. he murmurs gruffly, and accompanies the words with a halting motion.

the wind bit low, curling around the cliffside like a secret not meant for ears. sólhárr heard the call even before it reached the peak—raedwulf’s voice, gritted and quiet, but clear with intent.

he rose from his perch, a quiet flick of his tail bidding the companion at his side to follow. with slow, grounded steps, he descended the ridge. snow cracked beneath his weight. his breath fogged before him, and when he emerged through the treebreak, the golden and ash-painted chief was a sight of the north: weathered, immense, calm as stone.

he took stock in silence. raedwulf, wounded still but standing firm. beside him—another. a light shape with the stiffness of a stranger. sólhárr’s cold-blue gaze found the boy.

you summoned. the words came even, neither harsh nor warm. his eyes shifted back to his kin.

who is this?

hē is cuma, raedwulf hums, voice made of cold and smoke.
he nods once toward the boy, who stands stiff as a drawn bow. this makes him chuckle, and lean to knock a large paw into the boy's shoulder.
raedwulf's expression does not soften, but neither does it harden. looking upon this ezra man simply. forcyþe, he ushers. gesturing with a firm paw towards the red man.
then moving away from ezra, to join the side of his chieftain, so they might judge him together!

ezra follows a few clips behind, twinsun gaze taking in the forest ... familiar but it wasn't the familiar he was looking for. he was searching the shadows, waiting to see eyes staring back at him despite his escort. still, there was something unsettling about being in a pack's territory, despite the invitation, without actually being apart of them.

he tucks those thoughts away, guard up despite the deference of his posture even as they come to a stop and the one, he assumes, that the stranger called solharr arrives ... also looking like he was carved from rock with cold blue eyes.

he assumes that the strange word that he doesn't understand was something akin to 'introduce' though this was only deduced because of the gesture used; but at least solharr spoke common. that would decidedly make things easier.

i am ezra. he introduces, watching as raedwulf joins solharr's side.

his gaze swept over the boy—not cruel, not warm, just... measuring.

you come with raedwulf, he finally said, his voice deep and quiet like a distant avalanche. that means something.

a glance to his warrior, a flicker of trust. then, back to ezra.

but you are not known to us yet.

he stepped forward once, slow and even, stopping just short of the younger male. towering, shadow-cast, but not unkind. not yet.

why are you here, ezra? speak truth. we listen.