Sun Mote Copse stranger things have happened, i know
dreamer trapped by your desire
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The vast loneliness of the forest had called to her; she craved the emptiness in the spaces between towering trees and flourishing patches of flowers and ragweed, the silence in the air as gold-bathed particles drifted slowly down. The morning was clear and bright, but the sparse canopy's filtering softened the harshness. She moved silently among it all, taking it in almost lazily; but to the keen eye, there was no mistaking the ever-present tension in her posture.
A hunt, she decided. Daylight was precious and all too fleeting. Her ink-dipped coat served her best at night, true— or it would, if life were ever convenient for the girl of many names. It was not, however, and she was restricted to as many hours as the sun gave her each day. Her pace increased, nose lowering to the ground in hopes of catching a scent.
She did not search long. Fresh tracks and a bold scent told her of a nearby quarry; fox. Her steps became more calculated, ears pulling forward. The wild-furred inkstain paused in her advance only once to taste the air, to train scarlet eyes on her intended victim. In that moment she was perfectly still, breath halted as if waiting for something.
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ásabragr
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kjalarr moves towards the coast though his path his far from determined. it zigzags from territory to territory within the hinterlands carelessly. he has no destination and no purpose other than survival. food, water, shelter. the morning is bright and sun mote copse gives evidence of it's name. particles of something — pollen if he had to guess — drifts lazily through the air as he moves through the forest, easily spotted despite that the canopy offers decent shade from the bright morning sun. his steps pause as he crosses the scent trail of another. female. loner. and the unmistakable stench of the fox she is no doubt in search of. he deliberates. he does not often feel sociable these days and he does not necessarily wish to be the cause of a failed hunt for her. kjalarr creates a wide berth, circling around the area, foliage rustling as he moves through it. it offers him no camouflage: the platinum silver of his pelage is made to blend with harsh frosts and merciless glaciers of the north and though he does not intend for it a twig snaps under foot and the warborn grows still with anticipation.

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you still wonder if you're
a ferocious beast or a saint
but you're neither because
you're infinitely more —


dreamer trapped by your desire
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She was momentarily distracted by the faint sound of movement among the vegetation, distant enough to be only barely perceptible. Her nose lifted higher for a beat, and the wind brought to her the scent of a stranger. A grimace tugged at her features, focus snapping back to the fox; it seemed she was not the only one who had noted the presence of another wolf. In the next breath she was off, unwilling to waste another moment.

The snap of a twig punctuated the beginning of her chase. Fortunately, it was a brief one. She ended it quickly and cleanly, keeping her thanks and apology to the fox to her own thoughts; she was all too aware she had company, now. Her jaws tightened around her prize, and impulsively she sought the one who had nearly cost her the hunt. No ill feelings lingered— in the end, the unknown had cost her nothing. Something more frivolous drove her, ego bolstered by the unexpected success.
It was not difficult to find him. A striking, scarred man of silver; stocking'd and seemingly blind in one eye, travel-worn and disheveled. She slowed in her approach, dropping the fox several paces away from him and continuing past it so her body was a barrier. Her gaze roamed him briefly, critically, sensing something sharp and perhaps dangerous within the burly male.
You're ill-suited to this forest, She mused aloud, tone without malice; her eyes had drifted from him across the landscape, though she regarded him constantly at the edges of her peripheral. Why not go north?
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the woman is draped in a pelage of the darkest inks. the pungent scent of blood is strong on the air, mixed thickly with her unfamiliar scent. kjalarr's black, leathery nostrils flare as she drops her catch and moves to stand between it and him. kjalarr sneers at her and chuckles. it is a hollow sound utterly devoid of mirth. "i do not want your kill stúlka." kjalarr tells her, tone as cold as the stony expression worn on his scarred face. his hackles bristle at her audacity and he fixes eyes — both caribbean and frosted milk — upon her. he can see her out of his damaged eye as one sees a shadow through thick and heavy fog: the shape writhes, undefined sometimes there and others ...not. his upper lip curls back from his teeth. a warning. "so are you." he returns, tongue sharp and ready to cut. "these wilds are my birthright. i go where i want." and you, little girl, will not stop me. the words go unsaid but they can be seen in the hardening of his eye, the lift of his tail and the quiver of his upper lip as he exposes his teeth once more.

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you still wonder if you're
a ferocious beast or a saint
but you're neither because
you're infinitely more —


dreamer trapped by your desire
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Sharp and dangerous, indeed. She kept to her feet, head tilted slightly at the snarl upon his features, the strange word he used. A wry half-smile pulled at her own expression as he returned her observation as if it were insulting. His claim was of more interest to her, but the undertone to his words forced her attention there first.
As you should, She agreed mildly, flicking an ear and casting a pointed glance over his lifted hackles. No part of her desired a fight; she was prepared to flee at any moment, finding exception in her pride when it came to obvious madmen. It wasn't an insult, you know.
Curious, she could not resist questioning, half-expecting an answer in the form of piercing teeth. Your birthright?
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ásabragr
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#6
kjalarr does not care if he misunderstood her meaning. in truth, her offered appearing change of heart ( or subtle correction? ) does little to soothe the heated sting of his ire that lingers in his veins. "why speak it then?" kjalarr asks in a tone that is almost a viper's hiss. his interest in her response to his inquiry is indifferent, it balances precariously on a blade's edge. yet still he listens for it with a twitch of his ear. he listens for it because he has demanded it. "yes. birthright." kjalarr reiterates, wondering if she understood what the word meant. he hadn't stuttered over it and he was fairly certain it only held one meaning. "my father founded a territory and pack on the coast. i was born there and when my mother abandoned it after his death, it became my right. my inheritance." stavanger bay was his father's legacy ...not anyone else's and as ragnar's oldest biological son ( born in these wilds, at any rate ) kjalarr wants what belongs to him.

please send all PM's to kivaluk

1/3 threads
you still wonder if you're
a ferocious beast or a saint
but you're neither because
you're infinitely more —


dreamer trapped by your desire
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#7
Curiosity, She returned evenly, watching his posture and movements carefully. If he would not settle, she would depart soon; it was a simple fact to her that little was worth the feeling of teeth rending her flesh. Even an interesting tale could not quite convince her.
Nonetheless, she stayed for his explanation, vague and dissatisfying as she found it. Not unreasonable, given their status as strangers to each other— still, she wished for more. You're traveling to the coast, then, The statement came simply; an obvious assumption. Glancing over his unkempt form again, she continued, You have nothing else, and it wounds your pride. You're accustomed to importance.
She paused. When you take the territory, you will lead? Another sweep of scarlet eyes upon the man; leadership seemed an air about him, rather than a title he might take. It suits you.
There was of course the ever-present possibility of inciting his anger further, of bringing the feral man's wrath upon herself. The girl of many names was unperturbed; she was prepared, and if the pale wolf lunged for her, her exit would be swift (fox in tow).
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ásabragr
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curiosity. a simple enough answer and one that kjalarr can understand. once, he too, harbored curiosity of many things. it touches upon the belief that knowledge is power. that was the allfather's belief. it had been ragnar's belief. kjalarr's immediate answer to her assumption is yes but before the word call fall from his lips he hesitates. it sounds good: to waltz to the bay and claim it for himself. yet, he has been a captive for a while; gone from the wilds for longer yet. there are many unknowns. a pack could have called claim to it. regardless, he would need supporters. he was enough to claim odinn's cove but he had the advantage of being a ragnarsson. naturally, he was sought as a potential leader before he made his play to covet the title. kjalarr's lips pull terse as she analyzes him, hitting the nail on the head with an acute accuracy that has him now curious. it was a useful trait. it could be useful to him. "i hunger for it." he answers though it had not been a question. perhaps his time as potema's captive, her pet had awoken the wicked and ambitious beast within him. "yes." he is intrigued to hear that she thinks leadership suits him. three packs he has led, rising to the rank of beta shortly after his first birthday, but she does not know these things. "what makes you think so?" he inquires idly, but within he is more interested in her deduction then he is outwardly willing to let on.

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you still wonder if you're
a ferocious beast or a saint
but you're neither because
you're infinitely more —


dreamer trapped by your desire
272 Posts
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#9
She was pleased; the stranger's anger seemed to settle, at least halting its ascent for the moment. Her gaze warmed by fractions, one ear flicking as she settled back on her haunches. His answers brought a faint smile to her lips, eyes glittering with intrigue. The confirmation did not surprise her, but brought with it a hunger of her own. Despite herself, she imagined how sweet it might taste to humble such a creature, were she capable.
None of us are as subtle as we think, She offered, unwilling for many reasons to highlight what she saw in the man. In a way, she thought of it as a better answer; he would know now that few things slipped her observation, and perhaps would be better off for the knowledge. It did little to bother her. They might never cross paths again. What is your name, roi sauvage?
The clumsy way her father's tongue rolled from her still quite bothered her, even after so much time; she nevertheless clung tighter to the language in his absence, finding comfort even in her own accented pronunciation. Though, common would always be her native tongue, dull as it was.
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ásabragr
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since this went 3 weeks without a reply and is long enough for me to personally consider it as an archivable thread i just went ahead and tacked a small conclusion on it so i could archive it. if you'd like to continue/formally wrap it up feel free to give me a little poke on pm or discord and i'd be more than happy to have it revived for us. :-)

kjalarr watches her settle back upon her haunches but he does not reciprocate. he lingers but he does not let his guard down, does not display a physical comfort he does not feel. she is intuitive but they are strangers. she knows only what she discerns and what he chooses to divulge her. it isn't much. simple fact. some she deduced for herself and others that he gives her. scraps. his story is long. no doubt he has experienced more during his three years of life then some do their whole lives. the rise and fall of regimes, families torn apart; his family torn apart ...in fact he's done it several times over. he has felt hatred towards children of his own loins, has killed his own daughters. there is more than he could tell in a single meeting, in a single night. his saga has already by and far eclipsed ragnar's.

kjalarr lets out a contemplative noise as she offers him a simple and unsatisfactory explanation. he accepts it because it is only fair. "i have many." he remarks simply. jorunn, tevinter, kjalarr, atli, shadowmarked, ásabragr. no doubt he will collect more to add to that list as he collects scars. "kjalarr." he eventually gives her and turns his sharp eye to her. he does not verbally ask for her name but rather demands it in the silence of his expectant stare.

their conversation carries on for a short while longer, never breaching further than shallow pleasantries. kjalarr wasn't good with pleasantries but it was better than indulging in things he'd rather not speak of. time ticked onwards and eventually the pair went their separate ways.

please send all PM's to kivaluk

1/3 threads
you still wonder if you're
a ferocious beast or a saint
but you're neither because
you're infinitely more —