Nova Peak existence

@Skorpa @Ayovi !!

the path to winsook was unforgiving. but anoré moved with steady purpose, her lengthy limbs carrying her through the frostbitten expanse ulfric had pointed her toward. the mountain looms ahead, its peaks dusted in the remnants of winter, though the air is thick with the promise of spring. 
the scent of wolves grows stronger the higher she climbs. it is not fresh, but it is there—woven into the stone. she slows and her breath steadies. this is winsook. this is their land. and she is a stranger walking its borders.
but what is she searching for? a home? a purpose? a reason to be here at all? the question gnaws at her. she had not asked ulfric where he thought she should go—only where she could.
for years, she was bound to others—duty, blood, expectation. and now, anoré crownore realizes she does not know how to want for herself. but she knows she does not wish to be alone.
as night began to fall, the stars emerged—sharp and brilliant against the endless dark. she lifts her head to trace their familiar paths. the constellations had not changed since she'd left winterhelm, and neither had the gods who watched from above.
she closes her eyes and a prayer falls from her. not one of pleading—she had long since stopped begging. but a whisper of acknowledgment. of reverence and safe passage. she was still here. she was still walking.
"faðir minn, ég þakka þér fyrir styrk þinn. megi stjörnurnar þínar leiða mig."

---

first the mother and child, then the shadowhunter. back to the densite to clean and to pack more. a patrol, a hasty meal. more gathering. another patrol.

at last he slept.

he was unused to the duties of guarding a mountain kingdom at its forefront, not only on the march.

too many hours had gone by. first skorpa had gained no power, and then suddenly he had much responsibility.

he was waylaid, lashing sinew to hold herbs; a call rose, forcing air from skorpa's nose in a snort of exasperation. tilting his head back, he begged the gods their strength before reluctantly rising to answer once more.

inspection; pale woman of some age, though she was undiminished to both his eye and surely her own. not to be underestimated. and she carried no scent of darukaal.

stars curled in illumination. his perceptive ears gathered the cadence of words familiar, even if he did not quite hear their sound. a cleared throat to announce himself, but otherwise skorpa was silent. waiting.

---

anoré does not startle. she lowers her chin to observe the wolf before her, tracing the grime that clung to his fur like old sins, the bear’s hide draped over him like a second skin. a man of war, folded by bloodletting and faith. 
the silence stretches on, but she does not shy away. instead, she dips her head. in reverence. in acknowledgement of a fellow north-blood. she hopes the gesture finds him in shared understanding of land and kin.
"þessar jarðir eru yndislegar. það minnir mig á hvaðan ég kem." she says. her voice falls like the first snow—true, honest. "ertu verndari þess?"

---

this role, it was unfamiliar. skorpa was thirdborn, or had been; his destiny had never been to be jarl, but to die in some glorious battle far from home. now it had changed; now he lived upon this star-mountain where others flocked and might seek him for aid or assistance.

even now, he had come to answer a call as a leader might, though he was uncomfortable with the very idea. what eased him was the elegant woman's command of snowrune tongue.

"jeg er en af dem." the mien of a man slinging broadaxe over shoulder in passive reminder of strength. "dette er winsook, og jeg er skorpa."

---

her ears flick as he speaks. skorpa. "ég er anoré." no title. no embellishment. before, she was hrímskóna, whitemoon matriarch, strategist, blade. and before that, humble healer. no such things mattered any more, but there was relief in loss. opportunity.
she straightens, and a slow breath of fog crisps the air, "ég leita ekki heimilis." perhaps too honest, but she would not mock jarl with lies, "aðeins staður til að vera á. að standa. að vera til meðal annarra."
"en ég dreg lóðina. stríð hrærist. ég get barist, ef þess er krafist. áætlun, ef þörf er á. og..." ink-tipped banner flicked as she inhaled a gust of his scent, carried by the nightbreeze. the faintest hint of unborn. the memory pulses beneath her ribs, where life once grew within her, too."hafa tilhneigingu til kvenna sem bera líf."

---

"du ville være velkommen i winsook," skorpa murmured, intrigued more and more. "vi er en fredelig fæstning." too often did others mistake calm for weakness; skorpa meant to insinuate no such thing.

a curious thought came over him. "en troldkvinde fra nord bor tæt på. jeg forestiller mig, at hun også vil byde dig velkommen," skorpa grunted.

he motioned to the plains. "der er to andre klaner her. saatsine og darukaal. de kæmper. vi er ikke involveret, bortset fra at bringe helbredelse til saatsine-jægere." he watched anoré.

"hvis du skal leve i winsook, er dette indtil videre vores eneste regel. vi kæmper ikke denne kamp."

---

mention!

anoré listened in silence, the wind combing through her fur as she considered his words. winsook sought peace. she had known few places like it.
"Það er sjaldgæfur hlutur," she murmured, her gaze tracing the distant lands where the other clans clashed, "að finna stað þar sem blóð er ekki gjaldið fyrir að lifa af."
ulfric had told her that @Faust leads war in darukaal. her husband's bastard child. she did not know his face, nor the sound of his voice, but she felt his presence still. maybe one day, their paths shall cross, but not today.
"ég bý í winsook." she decides, "eins lengi og mér er ætlað."

---

it was an enigmatic reply. if skorpa were jarl, he might not have accepted it. but he was not jarl here, and strangely had no aspirations to be. anoré would stay and then if after a time she departed, winsook held no anger.

after a moment, the beartooth nodded at the introspective woman, standing aside so that she might pass him by. "jeg har fået nok af blod."

this mountain did not need the touch of a red sea. skorpa had lived too long with scarlet on his teeth to welcome more.

there was a child here. there would be more. skorpa did not volunteer elowen nor ayovi for anoré's medical intent. they must seek one another out; this was not skorpa's milieu.

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