Mount Everfall wilted scenes for us who couldn't wait

On high, the wind pulled at tufts of fur. It occasionally sent them spiraling off and out of sight, but he never paid them any mind. At least here the air felt more like he was still home, lost in some pine barren. But there were no pines up here, no towering firs to shield him if the weather changed.

The view was worth it however, and the only reason he had scaled the mountain to begin with. Having the lay of the land would serve its purposes, and he would plan his next move from there. The rush of the waterfall drew him nearer to the edge where mist enveloped him briefly, and his gaze lighted on the thick forests below.

Perfect.

His own ascent was slow, careful, methodical. Here and there, the man of the North would stop to examine the bounty these lands had to offer, noting which plants he found here and which he did not. Too early to be sure, Stjornuati would make no judgement on the medicines he found here, not yet. Somewhere in the land below, he would begin a cache, one that he would stock until their time here had come to an end.

When that would be was a question for the ages. He would make no insistance, air no grievances as he drew up beside his bróðir, droplets of water sliding from his whiskers to fall to the ground solidly below them. The forest that yawned wide lay quiet, unassuming, lying in wait for new souls to enter its embrace. A thrill of emotion slithered down his spine; anticipation.

Stjornauti joined him next, the pale wolf's appearance alongside him not unwelcome or a surprise. He could not shake him had he wanted to, nor the paler companion of his shadow. No words needed to be shared between them as they surveyed; they had traveled long and far together, their actions complimentary to each other as often as they mirrored.

When he had seen all he wanted to, Solpallur offered his bróðir a quiet chuff. Let's go, he suggested with the turn of his body. There would be other vantage points along the way, ones free of the mist and wildly flowing waters that plummeted towards the earth below. They had to manage the rest of the narrow spine of a trail they were on, and the stones were slick. But the sky was clear and for now, the pair stayed alone.

An ear twitched, twisting and returning to its natural position upon his creamy head. The non-verbal command went unchallenged, though he lingered a moment longer, eyes searching for... something. It eluded them yet, eluded them always and still, they kept their wits and their faith about them and moved onwards.

Falling in step behind his void-like partner, Stjornuati would keep to the trail, noting the weathered path, the quiet that sealed them in the further they moved from the rushing waters to continue their ascension into the heavens. There was a crisp taste to the air, like a finger of ice touched his tongue and spread to infect his throat, the feeling remniscient of their homelands, and the mountains there.

These mountains would catch a fresh fall of snow soon enough, and after that, ice. The vantage point they approached was in its waning prime now and the pale man knew they had arrived at a decent time. Too late and it would have been a cold, desolate hell to try and survive the winter through.

The threat of winter lurked in the back of his mind too—he could feel it wanting to set in around them as the days grew shorter and the nights stretched long. Though they had lingered in those temperate climes for quite a spell, Solpallur knew the seasons were cyclic. It may have been warm yet still, but morning frost had greeted them when they had begun their ascension.

A touch of it here or there did not concern him greatly however. It had a special significance to it, much like the pebbles loosened beneath his toes as he moved on. Though creatures of mountains and timber alike, he would not keep them here any longer than necessary. They would endure this trial like the others, and forge and find their way forward.

After a time, the trail began to slope downward towards a narrow esker lined with pines. An appraising note lodged itself in his throat; this was the way he had been looking to go. Downhill, towards the forests and the winding river valley.

"Ah, skógar," he grumbled. "Dapur skógar."

A scoff roughed his throat, harsh and critical as he took in the pitiful forest, its threadbare and bony fingers reaching to the fast-chilling air only to find emptiness in its spindled grasp. Moving forward to draw even with the kindred spirit of Solpallur, Stjornuati cast a sidelong look, the judgement clear in the baleful mahogany of his eyes.

For once, he also followed up with words: Þú kallar þetta skóg?. A sound. A laugh, maybe. Short and stunted. Staðlar þínir hafa fallið. Forging ahead, the pale wolf called over his shoulder, mirth coloring the next statement. Þó þeir hafi kannski aldrei verið góðir til að byrja með.

A jab made to one who he know could handle it.

His eyes narrowed as Stjornauti passed him by to lead.

"Og þú fylgir mér enn bróðir," he remarked just as sharply, a glimmer of teeth flickering behind his dark lips. “Nú held ég að ég fylgi slæmum smekk þínum,” he went on to comment with a trailing smirk.

It was all for fun and nothing more, though he felt temptation to snag his pale companion's hide between his jaws. But his love of roughhousing only went so far; to spurn themselves into mock combat would be too dangerous here. Later, he decided. Later Stjonauti would pay for his verbal crimes.

Their commentary was only a momentary distraction from the task at hand, though the flimsy little forest along it’s gravelly ridge would be easy to cross and clear. They would reach the thicker, more stout woods after that he decided… unless something else guided them away. Solpallur knew they still had the waterfalls to consider and their flow further downhill—the rivers he had seen, and their tributaries beyond.

A glimmer of teeth thrown over his should was the only response the male of the void received, taunting and goading his counterpart, though to participate in anything other than a steady walk would surely be death upon this narrow trail. There was little dissonance between the pair, the bond of their souls running deeper than the covenant of the womb could ever aspire to be. Jeers and jabs would not be their downfall, even upon the perilous lofts of the stone structure.

Steadfast and sure, paws carried the man of pallid fur from the trail and into the wooded thick, ears swiveling independently as the sounds adjusted; the roar of the falls dulled now, muted by the landscape, while the rustle of flora and fauna amplified, almost cacophonous in the wake of such silence. Though their venture here was incomplete, Stjornuati remained unimpressed.

Dark and light, they moved along the esker with little fanfare. Silence reigned supreme between them again though there was much to be found that was unspoken between them. They worked in tandem; where one would look along the left, the other surveyed the right. They switched between them fluidly, taking in the sights like a finely honed pair of hunters—which they were, all things considered. The duo was talented, apart of a brotherhood that was unbreakable and forged from fire. It had been tempered like good steel and filed into a point.

Solpallur’s eyes took notice of a tree that had been unable to support itself in the gravelly stretch. As they passed it by his gaze traced the partially uprooted conifer as it leaned against another, their branches woven and interlocked from years of gradual collision. It was a peculiar thing; the leaning tree so heavily decorated in damp moss, its gnarled roots and the gaping darkness of a hole left where it had slowly torn itself from the earth.

An esker was hardly a place to hole up or hunt in, not that he cared to do either.

This mountain was nice, but far too treacherous to linger on. While the forests below would hold the most promise, he did not know what they would find therein. They did not want for safety in the company of each other, but Solpallur had no desire to find himself entangled with the beasts that no doubt lived and lurked below, including their own ilk.

The edge of the timber was ahead of them now, and the slope increased.

Ever difficult to please, Stjornuati found the mount as a whole wanting, lacking in a plerthora of niceties that he was accustomed to. Even on the move, the two of them very rarely found themselves in a place where they could not find even the barest hint of safety. Here, the trees were yet thick enough to provide a veil to their movements but not much else; there was no prey save for the rodent variety and, with winter looming, the moisture in the air would prove only treachery in the way of ice. There was little life and less comfort upon this rock. Sad, in a way, as he was quite accustomed to the stony peaks of their homelands.

Down the two went, careful as could be; the surefooted Nordic would adjust their course when loose stones would begin to taunt his grip, navigating their way to even grounds again. A time or two, he would stop altogether and backtrack, only to pick his way down a different path. They knew not these lands, and taking a tumble here, even as they neared the foot of the mountain, was sure to hinder their movement forward.

It was only at the bottom that the pallid man slowed, pausing to stretch out his limbs and release a certain tension that had taken root there.

The end of the mountainous trek seemed to reach its natural conclusion at last, and the rocks gave way to a gentle carpet of dew-damp grass and leaf litter along a forest’s edge. Where the tension began to leave Stjornuati, Solpallur held onto it for a while longer as he took point again, testing the air curiously. It was thicker here, as it should have been, and the passage of time was not lost on him.

The sun was beginning a downward swing now, the birds settling into their roosts with fitful calls and tales to tell in tongues he did not speak nor understand. His gaze held the forest in high regard; this place too was comprised of an old, dense wood and foretold of the bounties within. Should they decide to seek them, at least; forests were good for hunting and foraging and with the tributaries that ran and carved a powerful course through the region he had no doubt they would not go wanting.

“Við hvílum okkur hér í kvöld,” he told him.

Stjor would rumble in agreement, a sound that rattled the quiet air of the forest; quiet though it may have been, a new sort of silence descended upon them, the sort where smaller creatures knew there was a predator among them. An ear flicked, waiting for a heartbeat or two when the low din of life rose up once more. It would only last so long, however, with the threat of ice and snow on the horizon.

Næturnar eru að verða kaldari. An obvious statement, but one that bore the weight of acknowledgement. Death would reach its bony-fingered grasp even here, should they not find anything suitable.

“Þetta veit ég,” he rejoined with a sigh; it was unfortunate that winter was coming if only for the fact that it would slow their travels, their hunts, and their general way of life. Had they been on their own completely, winter would have certainly spelt out a death sentence. Even as hardy as they were, they were not foolish, and their time together only bolstered their chances of survival. They were wolves of the great frontier, a world so wild and untamed that truth be told they had things easy here.

Solpallur missed that realm, sometimes, but for all the trouble it had wrought he was just as glad to be free of it and free to roam. They had carved out their own survival for so long that winter itself was a burdensome thing. But they would survive it too, he thought.

“Ég hef séð það í stjörnunum,” he went on, coming to a halt. Such signs were subtle, but the frost that greeted them sometimes in the morning and the way snow had begun to powder the gentle slopes that had led them there told either of them all they needed to know. It would get cold, not gradually perhaps, but swift and sure in the way that the mountainous cats struck their prey down in the dead of night.

Another agreement. While their youth had unfolded its pages in the wild frontier of the north, their later chapters had brought them here. Of this, he was not resentful, even cautious. He was a wolf of the Wilderness, they both were; No árstíð eða kona would tame the feral side of either wolf, dark or light. Both, however, deserved caution and respect. Woman and Season both could strike true shown little effort and care, and the man did not desire to fall prey to such things.

Ef við finnum ekki uppruna símtalsins? Verðum við með öðrum? While he did not truly want to live under those who did not partake in the same reverence and beliefs that they shared, survival was a matter of intelligent decisions, even if they were not so strongly desired.

Stjornuati voiced a very real concern, one that Solpallur had considered time and time again. While he did not think his bróðir would have much trouble in blending in with the crowd, he knew that he would. He did not care for the likes of others in particular. They were too different, too dramatic, perhaps so self-invested in their own worlds that they had forgotten how to stop and take in the world around them. They heard false gods and spoke in false tongues preaching wisdom that they did not possess. Perhaps most of all, they took for granted the life in which they were given, and carelessly threw it away.

His initial reply was a stern grunt. Displeasure at the thought and question.

“Ef við verðum að, já,” he remarked, shaking his head. Survival occasionally meant sacrifice, and he could sacrifice much if it meant they would live to see another year. If that meant swallowing his pride and partaking in the shallow games of the common folk here, then so be it. But he did not want this, not truly, and knew that Stjornuati did not either.

And then: “Við höfum enn tíma.”

Winter was not upon them yet and they could cover a great deal of ground.

“Við munum skáta. Við munum læra.”

Við munum lifa af. The starborne wolf confirmed. The pair would do what it took to see each sunrise, whether they personally agreed with it or not. As of yet, their paths had not diverged during those decisions, and if the two could withstand the separation from their homelands, from their ætt, it was likely that the soul-bonded pair would never part ways.

Svangur? Stjornuati was, and with a tip of his head, he would invite his brother to join him.

“Alltaf.”

Whether hungry for food, hungry for pleasure, he was always hungry and never sated. That was the way the road went in their travels; they would always hunger for something. Whether or not that stayed within their reach was not entirely up to them, for the world was a vast place of variety both good and bad. Whatever it had planned for them he had not yet pieced together, but perhaps it mattered not. They would go where the road went until their hringja was answered and all would be illuminated.

He gestured for his companion to come alongside him, wondering what he had in mind to hunt. The forest would provide as it always did and with any luck, they would not go hungry. Solpallur drew in the heady scent of the damp wood, testing and almost tasting their options. Elk, grouse, even mule deer lingered through the foothills of the mountain. Perhaps if they found water, they would find duck and pretend it was a delicacy from their wildest dreams.

He waited for Stjornuati to make a decision.

Indecisive was something he had never been. With Solpallur accepting his invitation, the devourers of the sun and stars themselves would set off into the land to follow the scent of cervid, lonely and wounded. Tonight, they would feast and on the morrow, they would continue the search.