Larksong Grotto deep down, you know that we are the same

hoping for @Aspa if you have time! vague timeline

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the wind was softer here. a whisper that dragged through the high cliffs above. the cavernous grotto sprawled like a secret tucked away in the earth, the moss underfoot soft and lush. a sanctuary of sorts—a retreat smelling faintly of wet stone and blooming wildflowers. sunlight bled through cracks in rock, casting rays of gold through the space.

gjalla stood at the mouth of it, where the stone teeth of the earth opened wide, let the wind breathe through her fur. whole, now. stronger than she'd been since the conflict. her wound had healed ugly and half-hidden, a pale seam across her throat that no longer pained her.

she exhaled slow, stretched each limb with a familiar fluid grace. freedom, in full. not under watchful eyes, not even blackfell's shadow at her heels. just air and stone and the echo of her own heartbeat.

she liked it here—away from duty, away from memory. she came for solitude, yes, but more than that. she came to remember what it felt like to be alive, fully.

You summon, I appear!
Might be a bit slow to answer, life's been a bit hectic lately

In truth, Aspa knew very little of the conflict that made the North tremble. She had seen warriors come and go, falter, change course. Collateral damage drifted like ash between territories. No great battle had yet erupted, and yet—there were already victims.

The soothsayer had carved a path for herself between rock and cliff, crawling, gliding, ever watchful. A woman dressed in black stood there—unknown to her—her body scored with marks, each one a testament to some recent violence. From the shadows, Aspa observed her with her one good eye, then let out a dry, amused chuckle. Just a few notes, enough to give her away, before she let herself slide toward the stranger.

Et nyt ansigt... she said, a hint of laughter in her voice, drawing far too close to the scar that crossed the woman’s throat. Et, der var tæt på at miste sit hoved... Her gaze lifted.

Who did this to you? she asked, curious, her tail swaying lazily from side to side. Was it a man of the North? If so, she likely wasn’t welcome here.

a rasping little laugh behind her was like a blade drawn in the dark—sharp, uninvited, promising trouble. yet she didn’t turn until the stranger was already sliding closer, trailing words and questions like fingers over old wounds. her pale gaze shifted slow, indifferent, as if regarding some curious insect crawling too close to her skin.

she hummed dryly, a broken huff of laughter. "ekki nógu nálægt."

the scar stood stark against her throat, pale and cruel. an executioner’s mark denied its ending. and though her body had healed, her posture was still that of a soldier—rigid spine, cold eyes, tension coiled beneath her skin like a beast in waiting.

"enginn maður norðursins," she added after a pause. "eitthvað ljótt. hann mun samt deyja í því." a vague, half-hearted smile ghosted across her muzzle then, humorless and dark.

She spoke in her own tongue—perhaps she, too, was a woman of the North. Aspa had straightened, ears pricked in the direction of the woman in black, listening intently. She knew her gods and goddesses as well. But Aspa called them by other names.

Fouler, you said? she murmured, intrigued. Then you must be from Darukaal?

A northern woman entangled in conflict, invoking the deity of death and judgment—surely she could not belong to the wild clans. Or perhaps she merely knew how to charm northerners with their own words?

Hvad laver du her? She began to circle her, gaze fixed with her clouded eye, a low chuckle playing at her lips, her steps unhurried.
Jeg møder sjældent ulve fra Darukaal... Endnu sjældnere hun-ulve. Jeg troede, Faust af Darukaal holdt dem godt skjult. A dry laugh punctuated her words, her tongue caught between yellowed fangs.

her head tilted slightly, just enough to keep the woman within view, but she did not shift her stance. she didn’t need to. there was something about her stillness that was... dangerous. a poised arrow, drawn back in the bow. a blade in the sheathe.

“it doesn't take someone from darukaal to see him for what he is.” she replied flatly, stone-cut and unmoved. she could smell the strange on this woman now—dust and decay, old rites and older teeth. a woman who had seen too much and survived in spite of it. a kindred spirit, perhaps.

"nema hann sé fæddur til guðdóms, mun enginn segja hvar ég er." she flipped between her mother tongue and common at will. a breath. a pause. then, softer—though no less firm:“i needed space,” she said at last. her gaze flicked, cutting. “a woman has no place caged behind walls. i wanted the cold. the silence.”

She merely watched, observing the woman in black and the scars scattered across her body. She listened as well — not only to the mortals, but to the whispers of the gods that came to fill her mind.

Og alt, hvad du fandt, var væggene i dette sted og en hekss irriterende latter, she had scoffed. Kulden, derimod — den har du. she added, her tail swaying behind her in a slow, serpentine rhythm.

The witch's eyes had closed for a brief moment, just long enough to draw in a deep breath through her nose before settling herself before the tall woman.

Ikke alle dine ar er blevet plejet, she remarked, placing her forepaws against the woman's chest to lift herself up to eye level. She studied, she dissected, she encroached ever further. With no hint of gentleness, Aspa placed a paw upon the woman's snout, nudging her head downward ever so slightly.

Dit sind, she murmured, offering no further explanation.

Gjalla did not flinch. she should have—any sane creature would have when the witch rose up to touch her uninvited. but this woman was a witch; a servant to the same gods she revered, most likely. for that, gjalla met her gaze like a hammer meets stone. she allowed it not out of submission, but out of control. power like still water—deep and cold and dangerous.

the paw on her snout coaxed her chin down only slightly, sending the white cloud of her breath into the smaller woman's eye. a steady exhale, misting.

"hugur minn er ekki þinn til að snerta." she said, though she doubted it would snuff a witch's curiosity. "þú finnur lítið í því nema eyðileggingu."

a pause. she tilted her head, just a fraction. let her feel her breath against her paw now, warm as it was deadly. "do the gods hunger for madness, witch? or is this curiosity all your own?" the gleam behind her words was not mere humor. a warning, perhaps. tread lightly.

Jeg søger ikke at vide, hvad der gemmer sig i dit sind. Jeg konstaterer blot, at der kun er ruiner tilbage, she remarked, her milky eye fixed upon her before she finally took a seat.

Det er sandt – jeg kan være nysgerrig, af og til. Men i dag tager jeg imod det, guderne har bragt mig, she added, her head bowed, gaze sly, a slow smile curling along her wide lips.

Ser du det ikke? Du er kommet her, fortabt, i søgen efter noget, der kan lindre de sår, ingen helbreder har formået at læge. She rose then, slipping once more into the winding paths, coiled like a viper lying in wait. Det er godt. Det betyder, at der stadig findes dem i Darukaal, som ærer guderne.

Like a serpent encircling its prey, Aspa folded in on herself, only to meet the gaze of the shattered soul once more.

Kom til min hytte. Jeg vil hjælpe dig med at samle dit splintrede sind, Flænget Sjæl, she cackled, her form slowly melding into the stone of the grotto walls.

gjalla didn’t move. not immediately.

she stood there, still as stone as she listened to the witch's words echo around her. flænget sjæl. she'd been called worse, names far crueler still. annoyingly, this one fit. perhaps too well.

her gaze drifted toward the spot where aspa had vanished, as if considering the invitation.

mm. she hadn’t come for gods nor healing—she'd had enough of that. but here she was. gjalla’s breath left her in a long plume. then, a whisper, to herself alone. "fuck." and then she was tailing her.