Alpine Lake circles

Unequivocally lost.

Her eyes skimmed over the terrain before her—it wasn’t that she did’t know where she was (well, she didn’t)—but that her days remained purposeless and lonely. The disbanding of Whitebark Stream had been disheartening, but it hadn’t broken her. Not the way the fall of Morningside had—the death of her father and the abandonment of her mother… the disappearance of her siblings.

The barely risen sun flickered light upon the dew drops of the wet grass and foliage, her eyes sweeping over what lay before her. There was a certain part of her gaze that sought potential herbs and remedies—then the other more logical side of her briefly wondered the point.

The wind brushed her silver fur, silent in its quest and resounding with the acceptance that she was solely alone in this world. The thought didn’t bother her as much as it should.

Perhaps she had been broken from the very start.

A gust of wind caught him as he reached the perceived summit of the alpine; this place too held his interest the moment he set eyes on the lake. Far from still, the wind rippled the waters and made them glimmer in the early morning light, setting a stage that was noticeably beautiful and tranquil. The trek he and @Stjornuati had made had been full of moments like this though it had been a good bit since he had stopped to give it the reverence it so desired.

He lingered along the shore, drawing in the scents that pooled there along the muddy, rocky bank. He could smell the lake water strongest of all, but others had been along. Rotting fish carcass here or there, perhaps a fish head… a turtle long dead but never freed from its shell; he could smell the growth of plants in a clump further down the shore as he strolled. Geese, ducks, any combination of either too.

It would have been a decent place to hunt, had he been hungry enough to do so.

Instead he drew his muzzle to the crystalline waters and drank.

And knew he was not alone.

Her eyes trailed the waters—mind drifting from every aspect of her life rather than focusing on what lay in front of her—the beautiful scenery, or the newest presence that now lingered at the lake. When she blinked, her gaze shot up, falling to the still waters and the dark figure that savored them from the safety of the banks.

Once more, the thought of simply fading into the foliage remained foremost at her mind—and yet, how was she to survive, the nervous little mouse that she was if she ran at every opportunity? Scavenge she could, but her heart and mind so desperately longed for a friend and companionship.

So she trailed forward, svelte form appearing as diminutive and unopposing as possible as she sought to make her presence known.

Someone emerged from the growth—a kvenmaður. His gaze snapped to her in a blink, holding her carefully as one may a delicate object. But it was a sharp gaze, wary of her sudden presence as much as he was satisfied his assumptions were correct. The heights did not keep away wolves nor did he expect them to; the path up to the lake had been riddled with score marks from hardy travelers.

With water to run down his chin, the unkempt furs of his neck ruffled with the wind as he raised his head from the crisp waters. His tail flagged, its interpretation left up to wonder as he regarded her, debating whether or not to fancy and entertain company with a creature. It was a very short deliberation—why not entertain himself with her company?

“Rauðhærður,” he crooned at her, “komdu hingað.”

Pumpkin eyes trailed the droplets that formed on his chin, only realizing now that her own throat remained parched from the weather and misuse. His eyes were haunting against the stark black of his pelt, and she found her paws faltering in their pace—and then coming to a complete standstill at the foreign words he spoke.

An ear gave an idle twitch of consideration, her eyes sweeping over his form, wondering if she was closing the distance between herself and a shadowed monster. “I’m sorry, I—“ she cut her words off, disgusted even by herself in the timid quake of her hushed tones. “I don’t understand,” she tried again, trying to lift her voice to a strength that did not impose such meekness from the delicate creature.

She halted and only then did he see her for what she was, a timid doe. She compensated for it, but it was too late for her to save herself from a judgment cast. It was endearing, though it did not warm his heart, and his gaze remained with her to watch every muscle adjust in her body, in her gentle features. No, he did not expect her to understand though he could her, for the most part. But the less she spoke the better, perhaps, and his tail dropped to swing idly behind him as he found his voice to speak rough and low.

“Come here,” he said to her. “This one is not to be feared.”

It was possibly too late for that too, she had quaked and started and stopped her words. She had betrayed the confidence that had drawn her out when she could have simply hid away and he could have been none the wiser. His awareness of such was not lost entirely on him and in a vain attempt to seem a little bit less intimidating, he spoke again.

“This one does not harm the lítið rauður dádýr.” She had given him no reason to be the monster, at least not yet. Perhaps she would have some use, if he could find his words, if he could use them right. Or perhaps she would understand actions better; he could not decide what to make of the wolves here. He had scented them, but she was among the few he had lain eyes upon.

He beckoned her in her own native tongue—the dryness in her throat burning now as she tried to swallow. Her gaze flittered from him, her delicate brows arching as she considered his words. Next, the smooth encouragement mixed once more with the language that she did not understand, and foolishly, the girl took a step closer, her nose tilting to better catch wind of his scent.

Had Meadow understood the concept of a man in a van, she might have balked completely at the point and retired completely back the way she had come. But there was a certain intrigue that caressed the stranger’s very presence, and so she drifted even closer, her muzzle canting to the side only slightly.

So desperate for companionship.

“Your words. They’re beautiful,” she murmured, and while it was a given compliment, a light frown pulled at her impish features. “Where are you from?”

It worked, surprisingly. She had been baited and he gently reeled her in bit by bit. Intrigued one way and then another; he tested the air about her as she drew nearer and found little to suggest that she ran along with others. Was she a lost little doe, loosed to the wilderness and expected to survive? He could wonder all he wanted; she may have been a little worse for wear here and there but all things suggested that she survived at the very least. Perhaps she did not thrive as well as he did, but then again Solpallur was not the sort who suggested there was much point in surviving. He looked the part of a wild man that had gone to the woods never to be heard from again, and it was that basal, feral appearance that made him seem formidable. Ferocious, if he had to be.

But she did not seem to be any of those things.

He did not know how to answer her question. Where was he from? It was a long tale that he was unwilling to share, but he gestured in the direction he had come from as though it would do the talking for him. She was gone from his gaze for only an instant, but he rounded back on her as though he anticipated trickery of the darkest sort. Wherever he had come from, it apparently gave him a beautiful tongue that was wasted in the mouth an boorish vagrant.

Solpallur opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue felt heavy. The words had too much weight to them and he struggled to grasp her language again. Always a listener, never a speaker, forever a foreigner that could not escape origin and story both.

“Why does frú walk alone? This one wants to know.”

The flutter of her chest began to settle. The bronze-masked girl allowed her eyes to follow the gesture he made, a spark of amusement at the vague answer stirring at her now. Easing her in his presence. 

Instead, he chose to question her more thoroughly. She tried to shield the shy uncertainty that shadowed her features for a moment, her gaze swinging down momentarily as her silver tail swung idly. "Gone," she offered, not referring to Whitestream Bark and their dispersal. Had she truly been part of any pack since Morningside's demise? "Fire."

She seemed to grasp that he lacked the finer points of the very verbose, her answers nice and short and simple. So her kin was gone because of a fire—he knew a thing or two about the devastation that fire could bring. Would bring, he thought, because he knew of few places that did not have their dry spells that turned forests to tinderboxes at the blink of an eye. How even when the sky clotted and grew heavy with rain that it was as much a boon as it was an omen. His ears turned one way and another, listening to the world around them. Almost could he hear the way fire would make the wood crackle and pop, but it was a memory of another time in another world.

“And you walk alone,” he said to reiterate that she was truly alone.

Consideration came to him then, however briefly. He wanted to test her somehow, wondering how suitable she would be to the hringja that had pulled he and Stjornuati here in the first place. This would have been so much easier had his pallid accomplice been with him—Stjornuati was the one with more brains than brawn, though admittedly the two were fairly matched in their skills for either. But his mind worked faster when it came to social events while Solpallur took up the mantle of silence.

“Are you vigamaðr?” She wouldn’t understand this and he knew. His brow furrowed. What was the word he wanted? “A warrior—vigamaðr. This one sees you are survivor. Strong? Maybe. Clever, yes,” he decided—she must have been intelligent enough to escape what others had not. Sure that he had something to go off on, he immediately pressed ahead: “Ansi rauðhærður like travel?”

He questioned once again if she was truly alone—a warning sign that stroked the fire in her belly and she clenched her paws to the ground, questioning her sanity now and if she should run. Yet had he wanted to harm her, surely he would have by now—surely, if she had others clinging to her pelt, he would have determined that already. He was a wolf of prowess and stealth—of that she was certain.

“Alone,” she confirmed, refraining from chewing on her lip, though a frown pulled at her features once more, not understanding his next question—not, at least, until he clarified.

Warrior.

“No,” she whispered, shamed. “Not a vig—not a warrior,” she reiterated, her small attempt at his language completely butchering it. “A healer. Learning.”

Her tail gave an idle flick—he called her something again—or referred to something she did not understand spare the final word: travel. Did she like travel? No. No, she wanted a home.

“Travel where?”

“Ah, læknir,” he said when she mentioned healing. That was good then, she had a purpose. A use, if need be. But she did not seem the sort to immediately throw in with the likes of him and that was just as well. Stjornuati dabbled as a læknir; it was the sort of thing that made their yin and yang valuable, which in turn also made the little red doe valuable too.

He grumbled again, trying to find words to respond with.

“Anywhere, everywhere. Við leitum. This one and this one’s brother travel, you see. He is læknir too in his own way. He could teach ansi rauðhærður, yes?” He would not pass up the opportunity to be in the company of a pretty she-wolf, either. “Are you veiðr too? Hunt?”

He tried his best to be nice—little deer needed protecting, after all.

But he did not sound very nice at all. Stjornuati would laugh if he heard him now.

Meadow shifted her weight at the mention of his brother—he traveled with another. Was his brother equally as intense? The flutter in her heart had her wondering if she would be able to handle such a thing.

His invitation was not unwelcome though it did not offer her the lifestyle she wished to continue. Yet traveling with a band of brothers certainly held more appeal than trying to maneuver through the valley alone when winter was on their doorstep.

“Ansi rau…” Again, butchered, she allowed the words to die on her tongue, blinking at him and feeling the equivalent of a little mouse. “What does that mean?”

His question was not likely to be answered with something he approved of, but her eyes were still upon the intensity of his own, drifting so often to study his rakish appearance. Had she not been so monumentally frightened of him in so many ways, she might have considered how handsome he was.

“I hunt. Small prey,” she tacked on, her muzzle tilting only slightly. “You don’t seek a pack?”

Lost in translation, he didn’t quite know how to respond to her first question. Her second one, however, earned her the tilt of his head as he pondered how best to define that situation he found himself in. He thought it rather clear crystal in its essence, but then again perhaps it all mattered on what defined a pack in the first place. That took a lot more thought that he was perfectly capable of, but even then he knew that the words would get lost in translation yet again.

His brow furrowed, thinking much more simply.

“Two make pack,” he told her. “Three make pack better, yes?” So they didn’t confine themselves to just one place in particular—not a big deal, at least to him. It had been that way for a long, long time; there had never been any sense in trying to fix what wasn’t broken. He didn’t know how to further explain things either, not that he felt inclined to suddenly share with her that they often did not have the best of luck in packs comprised of mismatched personalities and tempers.

“This one and brother follow óbyggðir hringja,” was all he offered her, righting his head once more. “The heimur is home for us. Everything—anywhere. Is it not yours too?” His ear turned to a not so distant bird call then, but his gaze still held her with the same unnerving strength he possessed. It was the same strength that dictated he push her towards a decision—they had use of another hunter and healer as they always would.

“So you come, yes?” Another stilted phrase; he nodded, head bobbling like a puppeteer.

He either ignored her first question or didn’t understand and so he moved forward—the furrow of his brow reminding her of an encroaching storm, and she felt an ear swivel back in uncertainty.

Had there not been a distinct language barrier between the two, Meadow would have been more put out by what could have been taken as the dreaded ‘mansplaning.’ Two in her mind did not make a pack—nor did three, yet the strength that exuded from the beast before her certainly revealed why he could hold such confidence of safety with low numbers—but not everyone was built like a tank and had a 'don't mess with me' swagger.

“Yes,” she agreed, instead, her tone soft, her gaze considering. She did not know who they followed—a God of some sort? Instead, she focused on what she could answer. ‘So you come, yes?’ There was only a small hesitance—logic pulling at her, querying whether this was the smartest thing to do.

Instead, Meadow threw caution to the wind. “Yes,” she replied, her voice firmer with conviction.

Delight—if it could be called that—came alight in his unforgiving gaze.

He did not avoid a smile then as ghoulish and grim as it were, all teeth and lacking docility.

“Góður,—that is, how you say, good,” he rumbled to her, letting his gruesome grin fade from his features. Only then did he close in the short distance between them, almost stopping to investigate her before he pushed ahead a little further. His head turned towards her, tail swishing idly, and he wondered if she would understand to follow him.

Better safe than sorry: “Follow yes? This one will take you to this one’s bróðir.”

Had she known the imposing smile upon his features to be such a rarity, she might have studied it to memory further. Instead, the girl pushed aside any remnants of wariness brought by the man's looking presence and gave a gentle nod of her delicately crafted muzzle. "Yes," she agreed, throwing caution to the wind as she took a chance and stepped closer to the dark shadow. The tremble in her heart was likely revealed also in the gentle quake of her nervous limbs, but the little doe did as asked, following after the wolf to get another chapter of her life uneventful life.

He turned then, his gaze assessing the path he had come from before he decided it better that he go forward instead. Stjornuati would have covered a fair amount of ground in the few minutes that had passed and Solpallur knew that he would find him at some instinctive rendezvous later. He did not have any conclusions to draw about how his brother would respond, but he doubted that bringing her along would be of important issue. It wouldn’t have been the first time they found themselves in the company of another that wanted to come along for a spell, and he doubted that it would be the last.

“This one says follow,” he told her simply, and then headed off into the woodland.

124 words