Stone Circle when the laurel grows heavy on your brow

for @Drøugr

to be so far from the fjord leaves dracarys with a strange feeling lingering beneath his breast. not quite homesickness ... but like something vital had been carved from his ribbones. the sirenlord was used to travel — it'd been apart of his training as tactician — to infiltrate enemy parklands and nest there as a sleep agent.

but to leave, still not at his own violation ... rather at the command of a blind seeress, no less, left him feeling a bit like kronos, banished to the pits of tartarus dressed in silvered, pretty words ... of grandeur. of gauzy mumblings that reminisced of the nonsensical words of the pythia.

the afternoon wore into evening, painting the sky violent purples, clementine orange and bright pink; stars winking their way past the myriad of celestial violence that was left in the wake of nightfall.

dracarys' steps slow as the scent of wolves, fresh make itself known to him. he lets out a low huff, not sure he was interested in re-routing himself ... not when he can feel the call of something in the earth beneath his travel weary paws.

---

ᚦ — one wolf. two wolf. three wolf. four wolf.
each encroach upon his lands. each virile, bred with fight in them—each seeking to bring challenge to the fore of his land. draugr met it each time, crushed all threat but left spirit in tact, and now they aligned to his vision.
warriors to line his land. to hunt with him, to fight with him. each one a brother.
but the gods knew he would kill each one if they betrayed.
now, another wolf. this one does not trespass. but it will be seen if he seeks to challenge, to lay his own claim to cover up draugr's fresh inhabitance. he comes, puffing fur, a growl rumbling deep in his throat.
appearing from the brush that has grown thick with life since the fleeing of winter into the northern lands, and he draws first words: you. a grizzled voice. what er your name?

the man who greets him is tall and corded with thick muscles, draped in a pelage of ebony leeching to crimson with a pale cream underside and gold eyes the color of the setting sun. something within dracarys recognizes that he should be weary, perhaps even a bit afraid ... he was vapidly outsized and likely outmatched. at least in regards to strength; but dracarys always flirting with the valkyrie that would one day come to collect him felt little in regards to reservation.

if he errs to the side of diplomacy, it is only because he recognizes the power dynamic here, the brawny stranger holding all of it, and knows well how to play his hand.

i am called dracarys. he answers, offering nothing more and asking nothing in return; content to answer questions simply and to the point asked to him.

ᚦ — the name is strange. not from the north. not one he’d heard spoken in the meadhalls or sung over blooded fields. but it rolls off the stranger’s tongue like it’s meant to carry fire.
draugr eyes him closely.
torn ears flick, and northman steps closer, carrying great weight upon thundering, muted steps. this er warhall.
you near my land. my steinn. my folk.
his eyes narrow. you come for what?

to be such a mix: of northmen and the highlords was perhaps once a heavy burden, but the melding of families, of culture both strong and resilient and stubborn had crafted new mythos, a new bloodline and now this is all dracarys and his elder siblings, his father and his father's father before him had ever known. the name warhall stirs something within the sirenlord, reminding him of nights spent beneath the stars learning about the twelve.

a song of home, perhaps, strange that it should spark and sizzle to life in a foreign place.

that there is no name offered in return does not fall beneath dracarys' notice. in that, the sirenlord feels an imbalance. but the navigation of this feels like he's staring at a familiar chess game, potential high stakes: the stakes? very well his life. was the truth, strange as it may sound he assumes, the better option? or a honeyed lie?

dracarys studies the proverbial board before him; weighing his options, mind playing out the game where he'd grasp the king and move into the liminal space between on the board. a risk.

there is something in your home that sings to me. dracarys swears he can feel the hum of it now, like a heartbeat beneath the earth.

ᚦ — draugr tilts his head.

the way this one speaks... not like a warrior. like a seer. like someone who listens more than he fights. his words—too soft for warhall. too smooth for stone. yet, draugr hears truth behind it. or madness. sometimes, they sound the same.

he snorts. one swing of tail. not mockery. thought.

sings to you, hm? his voice is gravel. then maybe land calls you. maybe gods send echo through steinn—stone. ef þú heyrir, þú skalt svara—if you hear, you shall answer.

you come for banner? or for place under it?

a twitch of dracarys' lips is given, a small noise of confirmation given as the man repeats his words; frostbound gaze searching, waiting for mockery or aggression that does not come. he understands some of the words, but the translation offered brings with it a soft swell of relief. his interest had been in learning the tongue of the highlords and common ( though the latter had been out of begrudging necessity ).
the following question is blunt, and a little unexpected. how many challengers has this man had that he is left to consider dracarys as potentially one of them? trying to carve a foothold in the annuals of history was no easy feat and not without it's obstacles. but an obstacle, dracarys would not be. i have no interest in usurping you. dracarys answers just as bluntly, words cutting cleanly like a freshly sharpened blade.
he might've been lord of the tides and the siren prince but as the fourth son ascension beyond had never been in his fate-thread.

ᚦ — he listens, sniffs the truth of the words, and finds no stink of deceit upon them. the other’s tongue is clean, well-spoken. he does not yet trust it—but he will not turn it away.

then you are welcome. northman jarl's voice is rough-gravelled, quiet, a little less barbed than before. many come. some bleed. some run. you do neither. this er good.

draugr steps to close distance, the distance enough that his breath might be felt, warm and heavy in the northern chill. your tongue er sharp. you speak like warrior-prince, not raider. come from where? warrior-prince. the kind of sons that his own wife had born once.

draugr’s head tilts, a slow narrowing of the eyes. he turns with thudding footsteps to begin to lead this man, dracarys, further into the territory. he will show him the places. the steinvardr, the steinhaugr. tell him that which led them all. the blood that would be spilled beneath it.

a sage nod is given, of thanks, of gratitude as he is welcomed in. joining a pack not yet rooted in these wilds was a gamble, but there was a chance to grow here that a well established pack did not necessarily offer. dracarys follows his jarl over the threshold of the borders, gaze keen as it is cast over the territory that he would call home and help to build.
i come from a kingdom far north of here, icetooth fjord. it has been held by my blood for many generations, dracarys offers. my father, monterys is it's commander... the jarl in your tongue. dracarys cast his gaze to drøgur then, looking for any sign of recognition little or otherwise.

ᚦ — the name karstark does not stir him. not with familiarity, no—but with interest, yes. draugr’s ears twitch at the word dragonking, and his head turns slowly toward the younger male. there is no flash of awe. only that deep, slow-brewing intensity, like a storm considering landfall.

never heard fjǫrðr called that. karstark. draugr rumbles with amusement. but i know men like your faðir. born with crown on head and silver in gut. it is an observation, not an insult—but dracarys is free to take it how he will. draugr will take measure of his reaction.

draugr turns now, stepping along a narrow path marked by claw and piss. frost still clings to the edges of rock and root, and the northman does not wait for the siren-prince to follow, only speaks as he walks.

you learn this land quick. it take your life ef you do not. cold cuts through bones here, and wolves from below send spies. south not yet strong. warhall must rise before winds shift.

a glance backward.

what do you bring from dragonblood? gold tongue? blade-skill? godsong?

dracarys finds no recognition: at the name of his home, his father or his father's title; though the siren prince had expected it. still, there had been a tiny sliver of hope that he hadn't even realized had been there until it'd been prematurely but honestly extinguished. a small twitch of dracarys' lips is given in amusement as drøgur describes his experience of men like commander monterys. it was fitting and dracarys feels no insult at it.
the world is full of men like him. there was not a parent that dracarys was more close with. easily, the ones he was the closest to had been his younger sisters ... and even then he had left them to their ill-fated marriages to escape the shadows that only a fourthborn son could ever know. he was the spare of the spare, of the spare.
spies? asks dracarys, intrigued by this. the concept of enemies is not unknown to him, but dracarys finds it strange that they are so worried about a pack that is still a fledgling without wings.
my father taught me war, how to fight and how to strategize...while my mother taught me to hone my natural gift. the golden tongue, as you call it. a wiry grin tugs at the edges of his lips, finding the term amusing.