Larksong Grotto right to bear arms

@Anoré / tag for ref but free to join!

hunting once more between the two territories across from one another. they are like two twins at odds, and ulfric finds it amusing. he has yet to directly interact with any wolf from either territory; aside from the white woman @Ayovi in the witch's hut.
he has made his home within this patch of heaven between lands. the grotto quaint and suited to his tastes, and he is content to wander. to hunt off the lands, to rest.
he has been tracking a doe for sometime now. her scent twisted by illness, that has made her slow and left her gait fragile. ulfric will see fit to have her for dinner, then breakfast and perhaps lunch the following day.
but he is distracted by a new scent come wafting. it is icy, overwhelming in its frost. the huntsman snaps his head in the direction of it, and sees a woman appear; her fur like svelte ice, her body commanding his attention.
his brows soften from where they had become trapped in furrow above his blue eyes and he retreats some steps, brushing his scent against the tree he meanders past.

she moves like a shadow through the trees, pale against the dark. the land here is nameless to her, unlike winterhelm, the kingdom far behind her, lost to ruin and grief. never hers to keep. but today, she hunts.
the doe’s scent lingers on the wind, soured by sickness, thick with inevitability. anoré follows without urgency. it is already dying. whether by her fangs or another’s, it will not see another moonrise.
then—a shift in the air.
she halts. the frost of her scent wavers against something warmer, earthbound, tempered in steel. her pale gaze finds him, calm like moonlight on stillwater. there. folded at the treeline.
"hello there." she called out, remnants of the old tongue lingering on her lips. the stranger reminded her of another, if even just barely.
"you hunt?" her ear flicks, "so do i."

she notices him—he is not surprised—and speaks. and taken by surprise, even though he knows he should not be, his ears lift and he clears his throat. yes. turning his gaze inland. her voice is gruff with the same accent as he, and he takes a step closer.
you are a norseman? he questions, lip twitching with something unknown. do you speak our tongue?
he takes the time to further look at the woman. she stands upon long legs, each coiled with feminine muscle; and her body shaped by winter's kiss. ulfric closes the distance that claims between them and jerks his head towards the trail of the doe.
he takes to speaking their shared tongue now that he's been given a reply. she has settled near. sick. an easy kill. he speaks the obvious. an easy meal? he asks.

anoré watches him, unmoved, her expression carved in the same surety as the cliffs of her homeland. he is close now, near enough that she can see the way his breath coils in the cold. it had been some time since she has met another of her kind—longer still since it has mattered.
"i do." she observes him in the same manner as he. big, strong, a hunter. her ears flick thoughtfully and she is the first to break their gaze. she looks off into the direction of the thickening scent.
"ease makes for poor sport." she replies, as if disappointed, "but a poor kill is better than none." 
she steps forward, slow, deliberate, until she stands beside him, a light against his dark. not close enough to touch, but  enough for him to know she was not afraid. not wary.
"you may take the throat. i will take the heart." a fair offer. practical. the way of things.
and then, with the faintest tilt of her head, the smallest trace of something resembling amusement, "unless your pride demands the whole of it?"

there is the barest curl of his lip now in the face of the words she speaks. drawing a breath, visible in the cold spring morning.
no pride, woman. he says and begins to walk once more after his quarry. he had been hunting the doe first; he believed he was entitled to most of it, but that had been before a lady joined him.
and the huntsman was a gentleman first.
throat and heart. it is fair. he decides, then hushes. giving into the hunt and brushing past winter's daughter as he kicks into a faster gait, striding through the grotto earth.
the doe's scent thickens as he draws closer, closer, closer. her illness betraying her. a sweet scent soured by illness, but not one of the blood or flesh. the closer he gets, he sees the wobbling of her gait and the foam that pools at her lips.
he halts as quickly as he had run. stop. he orders. she is rabid. his hunt concluding as swiftly as it had begun. they would need to find new quarry—and the woman would get her wish of a thrilling hunt.

anoré halts beside him, her pace undisturbed, though her expression sharpens at his words. she watches the doe's state,"rabid." she repeats softly, distaste in her voice, though the hunt had already lost its appeal to her, "a poor kill, indeed."
her eyes drift over the land, nose twitching as she scans the surroundings. there is no fresh scent of game, only the lingering trace of the doe’s decay. her ears flick and she sighs softly. 
she looks at him then, "no scent." she observes quietly, her tone distant but not unkind, "it seems we are both without luck."
a beat passes before she tilts her head, "what is your name, huntsman?" she asks, her voice still cool, but a little less detached, as though the moment had shifted just enough to warrant curiosity.

death is a hunter’s friend, but madness? that is something else entirely.
he turns his eyes back to her, sharp and ice-pale beneath the morning light. hearing her words and grunting in agreement, shallow.
ulfric of skarvheim. he responds with a exhale and begins to shift upon paws, leading back into the center of his grotto, towards the hut he has fashioned for himself.
and what name does the north give you?

his name settles in the space between them, but she does not follow immediately. instead, her eyes linger, tracing the strength in his movement, the way the land seems to bend to him with each step. she is no stranger to solitude, but there is something familiar in his presence, something forgotten that calls to her own isolation. a reminder of the wild norths.
she falls in line behind his wider strides. what name does the north give you? bitterness swept across her tongue for a moment. she did not wish to recall the land that claimed her body, her life, her name. back then, she was lunarre, but now, she could choose.
"... anoré." the name slips awkwardly from her mouth, but there's finality in it.
there is a pause as they approach a crudely fashioned hut. he must be with no pack, she reasons, but he must know more. certainly more than she.
"i am unfamiliar with these territories, ulfric." she suddenly says. she felt like a nuisance, bothering the lone recluse who likely had more pressing concerns than a lost dame. but he hadn't dismissed her, not yet,"if you could inform me of any packs..." she frowned, "a place to belong. then i can be on my way."

ulfric grunts softly at her words, glancing over his shoulder now that they stand near his makeshift hut—little more than a hollow under stone and brush, but it keeps the wind out.
there’s a place called winsook, on the peak there. he jerks his head in the direction of the mountain that rises above the grotto. i know little of them, but they aren't involved in whatever conflict is ongoing in the taiga. he grunts and lowers himself upon his haunches, upon a fur of doe and moose.
then, his head turns southward, to the glacier which does not seem to ever end. and darukaal, actively at war. led by a man named faust. they are wolves of blood and claw. bastards, outcasts. harsh norseman. perhaps not the place to be if you wish to shed whatever lay in your past. ulfric seems to know and to see.
a sigh. he shrugs once, a subtle lift of one shoulder. i live between them. i hear things.

ping for mention!

anoré absorbs his words in silence, following the motion of his head as he gestures toward the mountain and then the glacier beyond. winsook—the notion of neutrality is not unappealing. perhaps she would go there.
then darukaal, @Faust, he says. there's a flash of recognition in her expression that she doesn't hide.
the second son. she had never seen him, never spoken his name beyond a passing acknowledgment, but she had known of him. he was here, in this foreign land, and has carved a place for himself, in war and bloodshed. crownores truly never change. was tvar here too? hope flickered in her heart.
"i see." she murmurs at last. 
i live between them. i hear things.
"and you choose to remain here." she observes, "between war and solitude." there is no accusation in her tone, only curiosity, "why?"

ulfric laughs at her words—and finds they are valid, however. he looks upon her for several long seconds before relenting with words.
neither have approached me. ulfric reveals. his tail tapping the ground lightly, his fur rustling in the heavy wind.
he inhales greedily the coming scents of spring. of life. of melting winter and thawing ice.
i have remained alone in this grotto for some weeks now. i speak with the soothsayer from time to time, she shares this territory with me. he looks around, as if the crazy woman might appear at any time.
but @Aspa does not.
i am a huntsman. war is not mine to make.

strangely, his laugh, hearty yet cynical, sets her at ease. weeks of traveling alone had made her miss companionship, as superficial as this might be. her shoulders relaxed.
still, his words do not surprise her. she had met men like him before—those who walked between things, neither claimed nor claiming. but there is something different about him, something that does not quite fit into the mold of mere isolation. 
"a huntsman," she says, "yet it seems you do more waiting than hunting." there's a reserved smile on her lips, followed by a well-meaning chuckle. it is light, fleeting. laughter was something she had not worn in some time.
"i apologize. what i mean is—you may not make war, but should i find myself here again, i wonder if you will still be here. in your grotto. or if you'll have chosen a path of your own." 
she dips her head to him, "you have shown me no ill, ulfric of skarvheim. may the winds favor your hunt, wherever it may lead you."