Larksong Grotto Warflower

Set in Larksong Grotto near the edge of Nova Peak. Attn: @Faliya, @Skorpa, @Ayovi, @Morwenna Winsook in general <3 set likely two days after this

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He travelled hard, his conscience leading the way. He maintained a floating trot as much as he could, for the child’s comfort, stopping when her sad cries demanded some attention. He couldn’t feed her, and they could never stop for long. Her discomfort and distress were met with empathy, but shouldered in the need to put as much distance between them and warfare as he could. 

The grotto lent them a sense of temporary security; he bathed in the waters, hoping to cool glacier meltwater might chill the throbbing strip of flesh that had been covered with a thick scab of concealed blood. Every wrong move made it open and weep more blood. By now, the blood from the wound at his neck (a strip of fur and skin pulled from his jaw to his shoulder) was a long, dark, dried cranberry mess that trailed all the way down his chest and left foreleg. 

He shivered as he sat in the cold waters, dipping his shoulder in and then lifting it, to groom away some of the crusted and caked blood, in case he’d picked up dust, dirt, or debris throughout the journey that could lead to infection. The skin flap on either side of the wound had begun to harden along the edge. 

He shook the water out of his pelt and slicked away the excess with flicks of his tongue. He’d begun to shed, it seemed; he now had puffs of pale undercoat hanging from him in great tufts. 

Hey, little firestarter, He said, as he came back to where she’d been left, tucked away in a little stone alcove that would keep her protected from the wind. He grimaced. You gotta be starvin’ by now, He heaved a sigh. A problem he could not fix- but perhaps a kindly stranger might. 

He’d noticed the scents of the wolves in the area, and made plans to approach the borders- once both he and Faliya had had a chance to rest, for the first real time, from their hard journey.

He curled himself around her to keep her warm, but the alcove spared them of any drafts or drifting winds; with his tired indigo eyes looking out into the fading light, he noticed the sunset; pink skies with cotton candy clouds. 

Maybe the future would be that beautiful. He could only hope.

Feel free to ignore Aspa (or not)
She's here to observe

Aspa rarely let a single detail escape her in the Grotto. She moved like a serpent, gliding through the shadows, watching from afar but never drawing near. Always just within earshot, she observed and was observed in turn, making no effort to shroud her presence.

A wounded beast, clutching a fragile body close. From her vantage point, she could scarcely make it out. A creature, a casualty of war? Frail remnants of life, unworthy of the sorceress's attention—just as her gods spared them neither a sigh nor the faintest murmur.

The scent of the animal had lured other inquisitive souls. Nose to the wind, Aspa had traced the lingering essence of her neighbors—creatures whose hearts were far more inclined to offer aid, to believe in the kindness of the gods, and to turn a blind eye to their insatiable thirst for suffering and war.

cameo as well!

back carrying the weight of several pelts, he sought now to move them from one place to another. away from his hut and into the drying sun as the day began to warm. but had been disturbed by a tension on the wind, and odd noises.
the grotto was often alive with sounds; wildlife, nature itself, and the witch's crowing. but this was neither here or there. it was unfamiliar footsteps, and the mewling of a child.
when ulfric arrives, it is to see aspa already slinking in the shadows, normal and milky eye searching. the huntsman finds her side albeit several feet away, looking to her once in silent question—then back to the man who stands upon the borders of the grotto and winsook.
eyeballing the grotesque wound brandished upon jaw and shoulder.

---

darukaal had not made more visits to either the mountain nor the grotto, and skorpa hoped preparations for their war kept such far away. for himself, ayovi seemed to grow in brilliant curve each day, and he sensed it would not be long.

thus driven, he hunted with increasing oftenness, digging a new cache down the path so neither of them would need to go far once the children came. never a demand, but always a desire, that ayovi should lie in their furs and allow him to tend her paw and foot when that moment arrived.

skorpa, thus too! filling with trepidation, amassing a fear he did not wish to bear but did not wish to shake; new instinct wakening.

blood and dirt. milky newborn smell. water-logged pack-scent tendriled beneath, faint now.

more than that, a stranger and the sorceress, standing in the fringes of the grotto as holy watchers. he did not like it, and turned his eyes on the second man, torn by wolf's-teeth and inexplicably in the companionship of a tiny child.

"saatsine or darukaal did?" he grunted, letting no curiosity nor judgement enter his tone as he approached, bearskin-shrouded shoulders rolling with a gait that promised hurt if lies were sewn his way. this was not winsook, but it was close enough for skorpa to be cautious.

---

He was wiped. To scale the foothills and reach the mountain, he would need more strength- and here, tucked away in a stony nook, seemed to be the best place to catch some rest, and avoid conflict. In his tiredness, however, it seemed he had chosen a territory that was not completely uninhabited. 

He'd dozed on and off, waking every now and again to scent the air, look out into the bleeding light of sunset, until the haze of dusk settled and tempted him into a deeper slumber. He fell asleep almost immediately, but awakened only minutes later with a gentle snort. For some time, this continued- 

-and he might have looked right at the wolf who watched him once or twice, in those brief periods of wakefulness, only to be dragged back into sleep a second or two later. He might have glanced directly toward both of them, when the man came to observe as well, but he couldn't have differentiated between a cattail and cottongrass at that point, unless it was less than three metres away. 

The scent of the third awakened his senses. Bear-musk caused him to stiffen, and he lifted a paw to shield the child from view as he blinked blearily up at the man. He shrank in fear of the man who blotted out the fading light of the world beyond, and from the unexpected waft of odour. His dark ears airplaned, and he tilted one shoulder toward the ground. He rumbled a thin, high-pitched growl and flicked his tongue over bared incisors, thumping his tail against the ground. Whale-eyed, he begged, physically, to be able to surrender. 

The question caused him to freeze. Which one was the right answer? The man had an accent, but Ksura couldn't pin it. He wore a pelt, but it wasn't caribou, it was bear. He trembled and licked his lips, only to find his mouth had become dry. 

S-Saatsine.

some pp to keep the story moving, but please let me know if not ok, I'm happy to make changes <3

She and Skorpa were like passing ships.  Weeks in the cache had almost made strangers of them.
Ayovi was no saint. She longed for home and her husband, and once checking Sun Eater’s lacerations, had set off on the journey north into Winsook with an intention of intercepting her norseman.
His blood-trail leads not up the mount but down into the high-walled grotto, where he questions an injured stranger. Ayovi pushes into the dell with just as much caution as her husband, attending the scene with a wary approach that finds parity between help and chase. It is not until she scents the cub bundled into his side that the huntress presses closer, chancing warning growls to reach with the immediacy of a healer who shed all other identities.
The pup is starving. “Where is the mother? Where are the others?” She asks the man, only then scenting his allegiance to Saatsine.
The cub is too young— far too young to survive without milk. That she even lives this long is a blessing Ayovi cannot risk. Her voice rises in desperation for @Moon Runner as she makes to gather the infant from the man, to tuck them against her own breast until the naneka can arrive.
“Skorpa, the stash in our den for this man. Ved ikke hvad han har brug for, medbring alt.” Her ears pin. “@Aspa. @Ulfric,” she snaps to the silent watchers, “help Skorpa. Hjælp.”
Cradled between chest and paw Ayovi rocks her back and forth, attempting to stimulate the tiny mouth with featherlight licks. “Please, please latch, asti'i.”

Oh. Hedder du Ulfric? she asked with a laugh, to the huntsman. She had never bothered to ask—why would she, when he himself had no true grasp of who he was? A hunter, he claimed. A warrior! But was Ulfric even his real name?

The witch had little desire to entangle herself in such matters. Fragile beings from lands unknown, likely oblivious to her gods. She wrinkled her snout in quiet disdain and slipped into the winding caverns… only to reappear farther ahead, overtaking Skorpa, waiting for him to take the lead.

a vocal command as the dane comes from the side of the witch, having ignored her comment with the twitch of an irritable ear. looking then to the babe clutched in ayovi’s arms. feeling some sort of wariness, an unfeeling about what had transpired here.
where is the mother? he asks to the wounded man.
but the woman is flustered, demanding they go, and he will not agitate her further as she attempts to feed the babe. he drops the hides from his shoulders in a heap—caribou, hare, fox—all could be of use.
he turns quickly, looking once to ayovi's husband, who he has not formally met yet—content with a nod once to follow the man to where he might lead.
watching as the soothsayer dances ahead of both, lips falling into a grim, firm line of annoyance.

---

ayovi. her appearance forestalled anything else skorpa might say; she swept the child close and began to lavish motherly attentions upon the poor small body. even then his mate sought to bind the child to herself with milkish intent.

his brow grew thunderous. he did not wish to leave her, and so indisposed, and with a stranger! suppose this wounded fool had led the wild men of saatsine here? would their peace hold then? already another had broken it! but her word held a healer's command, and skorpa had learned to listen.

he fixed the suffering man with a frosted look of warning before he turned to heed.

aspa did not stay. for this was the northman grateful. he did not think a child's bedside was place proper for a sorceress. "come," he grunted to the other watching face, and the three winterblood set off to winding paths where the den lay in cottage-wait.

he did not want them close.

"wait." and proceeded to bundle all into caribou skin, attempting at very least to divide one herb from the next tincture. three bundles. four — he wisely plucked moss for each package, and bore them one by one down to where he expected aspa and ulfric to be left.

---

It was not the woman herself who caused Ksura to bristle and bare his teeth once again, nor the thick scent of the bearish man upon her- but the sight of caribou pelt at another wolf’s shoulders. But as it fell to the ground, he noticed others- rabbit, fox- and in catching a flint’s spark of warning from the man’s eyes, he quickly sheathed his teeth, but remained still wary. 

In her cornflower eyes there was something kind, that both stayed the hand of her protective husband, and put the wolfdog’s heart at ease. She was heavy with children, he realized, once she had laid her wares upon the ground. Hope sparked in the promise of new life- and the chance she might yet save a part of the future that he had brought with him.

He surrendered the child but remained close at hand for a moment. Fa’liya, He said softly, as if giving the woman the child’s name might bring them some luck. He shook his head to answer her question. Another spoke, but in a language he could not understand and he wondered if he had stumbled into another branch of Saatsine. And yet…it felt wrong to assume. 

Where were the others? He didn’t know that, either. Had to run. He said. They turned on Morwenna. She told me to go to the North-most mountain, I grabbed the only child I could…She said to find Ayovi, He said.

The nurse-woman called out for another, causing Ksura to shudder. Had he leapt from one fire and into another? 

Beneath the man’s glare he slumped toward the ground, tail thumping and whale-eyed; a promise. 

Three wolves left. In the calm, he remained quiet alongside the woman, his heart still racing as he watched her try and prompt the child to drink. He sighed softly. Please, baby. all of this could not be in vain.

At once she feels Skorpa’s power come around them, and with that same glare he must reserve for rivals, he struck the stranger with a warning of consequence. Her eyes reach out to him in a steady gleam, rocking still, but sharing a quiet gratefulness until the last of his red blends into green.
The man has settled now, apparently more keen to engage with the huntress than her husband. With a muzzle bent still over the child her gaze is lifted to see him. He is young, younger than Skorpa, and clinging with desperation to the fading life of this child. Ayovi’s ears tip as he speaks.
“@Fa’liya,” she murmurs the name, “gods, I ask you, give Fa’liya a long life. May she live until her fur is frosted white; may she live till then.” Her voice sings gently in the language of her people, each word enunciated like they are the stones with which the girl-cub will build her future.
“I am Ayovi,” she tells him, understanding he is a companion of Star Eater and this is her daughter. “You will be safe here, but you must climb to the higher valley,” an indication is made briefly with the flex of pale ears towards the iced peak.
“A father will come to seek his cubs,” she lets out a breath. A chieftain would want more. He would want revenge. Anything less would be seen as weakness.

For once, she was among those who heed a mortal's command. She obeyed, waited patiently as the bjornmand wandered off, and took hold of one of the bundles when he returned. Aspa followed orders without a word—for in the realm of mortals, she was no one: a teller of tales, a translator, a fleeting presence where needed and no more.

And yet here she was, taking an active part in the rescue of a small creature, unwittingly taking sides. Such a gesture, however minor it may seem, could carry the weight of a debt—one that might one day demand a steep price.

snow scorched her lungs with each breath.
the weight of @Caan hung from her jaws—not heavy, no, never heavy—but trembling. limp. her boy. her son. she could feel his warmth leeching into the freezing air and it terrified her.
mountain, her mind chanted. mountain, mountain, ayovi, mountain.
ksura’s scent trailed, ghostlike, lost to the winds. gone. the storm swallowed everything. but she climbed, and climbed, and climbed, bleeding from her shoulder where sun eater had bruised her bones, body pulsing in time with the fractured wails of her pup.
then—
she saw them.
the mist parted, and the shapes came. wolves. so many. a congregation of pale figures and darker shadows, and among them, a voice. one word: fa’liya.
morwenna broke.
she surged forward, paws slipping in snow, heart thunderstruck, eyes wet. you have her! she cried aloud, not daring to believe, not daring to hope, until she reached them, until she saw her, her girl, her daughter, alive.
and then she fell.
her legs buckled and the mother hit the ground with a crunch of ice, curling her body around her son as she gently—gently—placed him down.
please— her voice cracked, broke apart like frozen branches. he is injured—his leg— she whimpered the words, pushed them past her ragged breath. her muzzle hovered protectively above his twisted limb, her eyes wide and wild, darting between the wolves who stood above them.
please, she whispered again, to anyone. to the gods. to ayovi. to the strangers who now held her world. help him.

massive apologies for this being so late! meant to reply then lost it in my pms :') will edit this again with better coverage once i'm home. mostly cameos unless she is addressed. pp permitted!

---

though she could not see nor hear, a primal need rumbled in her belly, a desperate call for something she craved. The disorienting world around her was filled with scents, some familiar and some foreign, but there was one that drew her—the scent of warmth and safety, rich and soothing as it enveloped her.

a weight shifts and fa'liya instinctively nuzzles closer, seeking out the source of the comforting presence. a small mouth cracked open in an instinctive search for nourishment, drawn in by the scent of milk. it was not mama—she could tell from the stranger's scent, but it would quench her hunger all the same. she trembles slightly with effort, mind focused only on the whisper of life that pulsed around her.

a gentle coaxing was like an anchor, urging her to find what she longed for. she felt the warmth bring her closer to the teat so she could latch. fa'liya pressed forward—there is a struggle, brief—before her lips close around the teat to suckle. the taste qwells her cries, warmth spreading through a cold body.

Cameo!

The frigid air of the taiga was cruel and unrelenting. The cold drew the heat away from his body, and the wind stole it away. His cries had faltered. Not for any lack of pain, but the air stung his very lungs each time his tried.

The boy was limp. His only movements being the shiver that tremored throughout his entire body. His body's attempt to avoid freezing. The march of time was a cruel one. Each minute longer than the lost, the boy did not understand why they kept going. Too young to understand that there was still a future ahead.

The march ends. His stomach lurches with the shift of air, he is falling! Morwenna catches herself. A weak mewl and bob of his head indicated his awareness. Limited as it was. Set once more upon the ground, his weight is upon his leg again. Feebly, he whimpers into the air.

chat i didnt see aspa reply sorry for the wait!!!

---

— when told to stay, he does. though he shows knowing look with aspa, but then notably rolls eyes into his skull to see her glittering look. it is always something with the soothsayer.
one by one, bundle comes. ulfric takes great care to pick them up, following when bid after the man of the mountain. his tail twitching in anxious beat at his hocks, lengthening the stride of his gait.
hearing the strained cry of not one pup, but two as they arrive. icy blues swiping from the wounded man to the frantic woman coated in blacks and grays, a pale star splitting the ebony of her face. the mother, he can only assume.
he swallows stiffly, delivering the herbs and then moving to the mother who wails for help. be strong for your children. it is the best comfort he can offer.

skorpa can be skipped/PPed by ayovi <3

---

when skorpa returned, ayovi nursed a tiny child. he watched her for the tender flickering of a moment, then delivered the bundling of things requested.

now bearsword stepped back into the fringe of shadows. ayovi knew what must be done; he was here only to bear witness and stand guard.

burntbrand stare turned now, watchful for the reindeer men.

a stormcloud existed still in skorpa. winsook was ignorant to the details of that going on, and this he could not long abide.

---

Words he didn't understand made him tilt his head, ears flicking back in momentary hesitance; if he'd found another band of caribou hunters, he would be fucked. He'd learned so little Lanzadoii that he couldn't tell if Ayovi was speaking the same language; but there was a tenderness to her words that he thought sounded unfamiliar. There was some hope, after all. 

Not for him, though. If he had to learn a third language, he was still definitely fucked.

Finding Ayovi was a stroke of luck- out of all the wolves in the world, he'd found the right one. His tail thumped against the ground and he breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that Morwenna had been good enough at giving directions that he'd managed to go exactly where she'd wanted him to go. And little Fa'liya finally began to drink. 

Success was short lived; Ayovi warned him. I know. he uttered, regret softening his voice. I could- He began, only to rise a moment later at the sound of pawsteps approaching, fast. He moved to place himself at the mouth of the rocky overhang, prepared to defend Ayovi and Fa'liya at all costs, though he felt his conviction fail for only a moment when he caught sight of a dark wolf running toward them. 

Morwenna! And she had a child with her! He moved aside to let her enter their shelter, sniffing her over, fur raising on end at the scent of blood, ears folded back as he recalled the regret of his own failure. If he'd been a better fighter, then he might have saved C'ede as well. He flinched when she shouted, believing he had caused her grief when he'd taken the child she'd left tucked away, safe. I took her when I found her, I thought- He tried to explain, but Morwenna's focus was on Caan, and Ksura peeked past Morwenna's shoulder to get a glimpse of what was going on, but she hovered over the pup, obscuring his view. She explained about his paw, and Ksura grimaced. 

He wasn't sure what to do with himself, at this point. Ulfric approached, a stranger to Ksura's eyes, not much less intimidating than the other man. Skorpa returned, and Ksura resumed his crouch, tucked tail thumping against his inner thighs. He did not seem to be too offended, that another refugee and child had come to their home. 

He knew nothing of medicine, and as much as he wanted to fuss over Morwenna and the child, he felt Ayovi might be better at doing so, at a lower energy level. Ksura, tired as he was, was flea-ridden with anxiety. He sought to relieve some of it by bobbing his head to the tall men who had come to their aid. Th-thank you. I'm Ksura.

At last, a hold, and a little exchange of strength between expectant mother and cub.
“That’s right, baby,” Ayovi stares in awe at the girl, enamored. She tickles, nearly hurts, but more than anything she feels right. The huntress sucks in a breath and looks back to Ksura with relief in her smile, but the quiet is not long-lived.
Like a tidal wave rolling through the grotto Saatsine and their injured appear, the woman Ayovi recognizes as Star Eater emerging from the coppice to collapse winded and maimed before them. Instantly she is at her side, encouraging Faliya to nurse her mother while inspecting the second cub’s twisted leg.
“It’s all right Star Eater— he’s alive. They both are,” Ayovi assures, tucking little Faliya with her paw. But the boy’s leg is horrifically mutilated.
“Skorpa—” She calls out for the norseman who knows enough of northern medicine to make a salve for the Ksura and Star Eater’s wounds. “Tag røllike og rens deres snit,” she pulls out strands of long ferns topped with fine clustered petals. Again she looks pleadingly to Ulfric and Aspa, that they may once again lend their aid to the wounded.
Then she turns back to the boy at Star Eater’s chest; examining the fracture on his leg. No mere accident has caused this. She grooms away the dried blood, using the yew to cleanse his flesh before coiling his limb in filaments of mayflower. “He should heal, but the bone must set in the correct position. This wrapping must be replaced every day.”

Ayovi felt sick.
This was the glory of war.
Many would not recover from it. Some returned from battle but were never the same. Still, others returned to hatred that history has yet to leave firmly in the past. They drew the blood—

but their children paid the price.