Ravensblood Forest from silence rose a symphony

“Þetta er heilög jörð,” he had said to @Stjornuati as they broached the mountain pass to the coast, “reimt staður.” A low fog lingered with the light mist that had woke them that morning, a chill in the air that only seemed to set the mood. There was a cord of tension in the air that he could not place, an unsettling feeling that crawled beneath the skin on his back that teased his hackles into rising ever so slightly.

It was not the weeping trees or the ravens in their boughs that set him off. It was the heavy shade that lingered here. Lodged between the mountains, the pass had been inviting and the paths worn, but even here he could sense that it had been tainted with turmoil. The feeling had settled long before he had ventured beneath the towering canopy, long before he slunk between the ferns with a working nose that feverishly sought unseen danger. There was none to be found, yet he could not shake the sensation there were more things at play than the woodland let on.

“Hér er hulan þunn,” he went on in a deep thrum, “rigningin þvær grátandi tré og blóð fer til jarðar.” Not that Stjornuati needed to be explained this, his eyes worked just as well as Solpallur’s any day of the week. For all his droning and sudden verbosity, it was clear that the sable northerner was enchanted.

He turned to his brother then with a crooked smile.

“Mér finnst að við verðum í lagi komnir vetur.”

He could hear his brother, of course, and yet at the same time, the tongue of his homeland slipped around him, buffeting against the shores of a reverie that held the man in its grasp. Standing still, a stone in the shade of the canopy, the eyes of his mother closed to shut away the world constrained by sight. 

A song thrummed deep in his heart, in his soul, and like a bird spreading its wings, Stjornuati could hear the song expand and swell as though a pair of lungs. The chants of a seer, the prideful songs of his kinsmen, the deep throated howls that had warned the northern wilds of their coming. Even the song of his brother's words added to the magic he felt here, the spark of something beneath his paws, in the air that he breathed, in the din of what life made this forest home. 

He could not restrain himself, lifting his head and allowing his own voice to join the unheard song of his fellows, notes twining and dancing with whatever spirits moved beyond the veil. It was a song of loss and heartbreak, but the song of a new beginning, as well. Stjornuati, in his enchantment, found a connection here that he had not felt since leaving their homelands.

His words went without an answer, and his head craned back to peer at his brother curiously. Stjornuati seemed entranced by something, taken with the moment in the way his eyes saw all and yet nothing at all. They were glazed over, moving yet to take in the sights as his body stilled. And when he sang, his intonation brought Solpallur to still too, hearing the reverb of his call off the stone walls that sloped to hold the forest in.

It was an old song, but one he knew intimately; the urge to join in was instinctual and his muzzle craned skyward to lend his voice to the refrain. Deep and sonorous, he was surprisingly in tune for as disheveled as his appearance and voice truly were. He may not have felt the same soul-tie to the place as his brother did, but he felt the connection in resonant verse, and their song carried out into the night from the depths of the umbral forest.

When the wolves had begun singing, though perhaps to them the timbre notes brought forth a sombre tinge to the cold misty air, Akai could not see it as anything but a warning.

The small male had his teeth about the throat of an old, wiry nanny. The goat's body was twisted with lashes and its legs punctured through and through; the flashy male was quick on the draw, a lone hunter who had used his teeth to gouge its eyes before bringing it down without a mess of fanfare. It had stopped struggling long ago, and now, sitting in silent accord with a few glossy-feathered ravens, all the creatures of the hollow stood still and rose nose and beak to the sky. A howl rolling like fog to settle betwixt the spaces of trees, a siren-song that made the snowy-whites of his fur rise with the unseen threat. He had to hurry. Knife-like was his jaw against the sinew-y creatures belly, pulling out a portion of its innards in a whip of globulous blood to chuck to the four birds awaiting, staining his muzzle a new, fresh coat red. Without a word, the birds picking up their spoils and fleeing to the trees in a mess of wing-flap sounds.

He could not run.

Belly aching in hunger from the drops of blood on his tongue, Akai knew that if he ran away and left anything now it could spell trouble for he and his small companion-- no, if the white wolf had to ward away visitors… so be it. No doubt the scent of blood would be in their nostrils soon and they would come with drooling maws to take what is his, but with golden eyes trained upon the low-laying brush Akai knew that he would need all the resolve he had to make sure that did not happen.
 
Statue-esque he waited, a score of ravens above him in a crippled, leafless tree.

The notes of their song weaved together for a moment before dying away, the wind carrying the memory of the tune like it would a leaf, catching it and guiding it away. Stjornuati's enchantment did not end so simply; little more than a glance was cast to his shadow before a raven cawed, calling his attention to the rafters of a tree. An intensity filled the livered colored eyes of the man as he watched the bird hop across the branch, loosing another cry before taking off into the forest.

He followed, moving as a ghost among the sacred boughs, overstepping branches and foliage alike while taking no heed for the direction he was running. Stjornuati's only drive in that moment was to stay on the path laid out for him by the hrafnsanda. His brother, while likely startled, would understand; the hringja was not to be ignored. Ever.

Down the raven came, landing in a seeming tower of its own making, a tree stretching its unadorned fingers to the sky filled with many more hrafnandar. Below them a single creature lay in wait, a wolf such as he, pale in color, dashed with the mark of his kill. A bróðir? Ears twisted, giving him his full attention, breathing yet labored from his sprint as he tried to make sense of what he had found.

The pale Nord found his voice.

Hrafnarnir heiðra þig.

It was another pale wolf. This one had fur dashed in the softest shades of cream with touches of beige, staring upon him with a mournful expression upon that long face of his. Words were rumbled out into the air as Stjornuati caught his breath between them, but it was a deep, strange language that had never reached Akai’s ears before… an outsider even more far removed than he himself? The white wolf was always reactionary, never forthcoming; if there was a battle to be had he would not be the one to lay a paw first upon the other. Thus, as the wind ruffled the long tresses of that reddied mane Akai stilled the quivering of his muzzle, raising from his defensive stoop cautiously. Entangled in the fur of his throat, two raven feathers hung untouched by gore and blood.

In approval the birds began their latent cawwing, no longer fearing that they would reveal the other too soonly, new birds flocking to join the feast. A few dared to dance at Akai’s feet about the bloodied ground, their rounded eyes inquisitively catching Stjornuati’s from time to time as if to say ‘we do not fear; there is no danger here’.

“... I know not what you are saying.” Came the smaller males voice in low, gravelly tones, ears tentatively relaxing upon his head. As always Akai’s facial expression was a deep mixture of concern and outright steeliness, the glinting golds of his eyes never giving the other lithe canine any hidden messages or clues as to whether he was being truthful or not. “I am sorry if these are your hunting grounds, but please understand; I have been walking for moons… and my child is hungry.”

Long moments of silence yawned between them as if a great fissure had struck the earth to separate them. His gaze did not waver, steady as a stone through a storm, taking in what information he could in the meantime. While this wolf did not seem to be responding to his statement, Stjornuati needed no confirmation; the corvid were calm in his presence, chatty and active. If they had not been, he might have understood the skilti as something more ominous and dark. But no, he stood there, blood upon his maw, feathers in his fur as if a picturesque man of the North.

Nei. A firm shake of his head. These were holy grounds. None claimed them; none should claim them. Not even the brothers had any right to them. Hrafn, He indicated the bird that flew near to him, landing in the dirt and catuiously hopping forward. Raven. Raven honor you. Stilted commonspeak, but intellegible nonetheless. Earning the trust of ravens was no small task, not because it was difficult but because most didn't think to.

The other’s words caused the white wolf to smarten a little as his narrowed gaze widened; was this other wolf of the Kingslend, here to tell him that he was cursed? They would gaze upon the black birds and see them as carriers of death and messengers of omen, would take him by the color of his pelt alone and would seek to cast him out by the way of guards… but this was different. This strange male opposite him had dark eyes that seemed somehow warm none-the-less, the fangling of the common-tongue words insistent. This was a creature not eager to steal meat from his mouth, but perhaps one that understood in ways that many other superstitious wolves could not understand. 

“The ravens are the brothers and sisters of the wolves; but many have forgotten that.” Spoken slowly, if only for the others sake. Akai’s steely gaze softened just a tad alongside the tones of his voice, “I hunt with them… because I have not forgotten that kinship.”

Because even though his ribs showed beneath that blistering white fur and even though his ‘daughter’, leggy and frail, still needed him to hunt… there was still an oath to uphold, even if it was founded upon personal beliefs. A soft tipping of his head to the side,

“You… are a friend of the ravens, too?”

He followed as well as he could, the jist of what the man said understood even if the exact message was lost upon him. Not everything needed words to be understood, and though it wasn't instinct that led him to understand, it was something very similar and not unlike the way Stjornuati and the ravens communicated. While no words passed between himself and the avians, there was still a mutual understanding.

His head dipped, an acknowledgement, tail yet lax against his haunches. Vinur, yes. Friend. Hrafn, raven lead here. Ah... leiðarvísir. Guide, how you say? His eyes trailed down to the meal before looking around him, scenting the air finally, forcing his focus to pull away from the raven-man and take note of his surroundings. Solpallur would no doubt follow him here soon enough, and he'd never hear the end of it he allowed his brother to ambush him.

Child, yes? Referring to the one he had mentioned. Ravens trust this one. This one trusts you.

Stjornuati’s sudden departure did in fact give him a start, if only because something had clearly enraptured his attention wholly. Solpallur did not miss the ascension of the raven to the dark sky—it’s call was there and gone in a moment, dwindling as though the very wind had stolen it’s sound. He lingered for a moment, eyes scanning through the dark canopies. He did not distrust the ravens in the slightest, but the very strike of a known skilti was like a flash of lightning.

It was not often that it happened, but when it did…

He moved on swiftly in the wake left behind by his brother, his steps only slowing as he slunk low to merge with shadows as the acrid tinge of blood reached his nose. It was not initially that he took this sign as a boon—blood and ravens could have just as easily been an omen. Often the two would go together, but where there was blood there were often very nasty things to uncover. His breath stilled as he listened, faintly catching his brother’s voice joining with another in conversation.

Interesting.

He crept forward, lumbering along the footpath like some shaggy, miscreant hellion. His size made stealth not the easiest of maneuvers to perform, but he accomplished it in the same way he did many things; it was done with precision and able-bodied form from practice. Stjornuati would know he was there as he approached, as that innate sál binda never left them entirely unaware to the other’s presence. But he was not ready yet for the foreigner in their midst to know he existed, and stopped short of leaving his cover fully.

So he listened for a moment to the words that the other spoke, of the ravens and the ties that held both wolf and dark avian together. Kinship was a word that he recognized, the oft used term for what would lure them into a pack as though it were really an enticement. His kinship, his loyalty, it had lied long with Stjornuati in more ways than one. Still, he recognized the moment for what it was, and let his brother make his assessments of this pale canine and his affinity with the ravens.

Though no cover was broken by the brother in black the birds had no doubt heard the minute cracklings of the others paws upon the floor, and began to cant their heads this way and that with their black beaks pinpointed upon his position. Akai had watched Stjornuati’s nose rise to the air quizzically… but had not yet caught on. Those golden eyes were settled upon the wolf before him and he alone, confident that if the conversation ever turned he would be able to handle whatever was thrown his way-- those thick scars that riddled the white wolf’s face were marks of strength, not memoirs of battles lost. This being so far had given him nothing to worry about.

“Guide you here… to me? Why?” Came an indignant chuff; genuinely befuddled! It was perhaps a sign from Kuta above, the raven-god of mischief and intelligence… was there something to be done? Had those starry eyes in the heavens seen something that mortal gazes could not…? Swallowing thickly with his fluffy tail scraping the ground, the male now seemed somewhat frazzled by the blonde wolf’s admission. 

When the night fell, the star-seer would take his place amongst the tall-rocks of the mountains to see what the blanket of stars had to say.

“A child, yes. Moons ago, the ravens led me to her whilst the forest was ablaze. They saved her life. As they are my siblings, I too am in their debt... without them I would have starved, and without them she would have burned.” The words tumbled from him rather fondly despite the racing of his mind, recounting the blur of orange and red and white that howled about them as they rushed to the mewling creature shaking before her death. Perhaps Stjornuati had no clue as to what he was saying, but then again, perhaps a shared thread in the past had led them together.

“I do not think… I have ever met another who has understood.” An ironic statement, given the language barrier. “Who… are you?”

The why was unknown to him. They ravens had their secrets and woe to the wolves who thought they knew what the avians had to say and share. A rolling lift and drop of his shoulders conveyed as much. He could feel the presence of... something. Something here was significant, important. It was not the draw of the hringja, though there were similarities to it.

He listened to the tale told, catching words here and there, understanding that there was a bond of life forged between fur and feathers, different than the bond of souls that bound the pale wolf and his dark shadow but important all the same.

Stjörnuáti af Stormskýli, He would respond, dark eyes watching another raven flutter down to pick and peck at the carcass the bird-man guarded. This one and this one's bróðir search the hringja. Hrafn guide this one through. One day, be it tomorrow or many moons from now, the source of the call would reveal itself to them. Until then, they would continue on as they ever did, wandering the many lands and living amongst its wilds.

You? It was a question he had begun to master, at the very least.

The pallid stranger wove a tale—this tone not lost on Solpallur—but he did not fully understand it. He picked out choice words to piece it together crudely, summarizing it in his head a sob story that once upon a time, had been all too common in one part of the world they had existed in.

Fire, or as he knew it, eldur, was a very bad thing. It was all consuming when the time was right, the smoke it threw thick and choking. One could have presumed easily that Solpallur was a survivor of such a thing with the way his own voice sounded in those raspy, harsh intonations but he had been more fortunate than this wolf.

He had seen fire, he had felt its heat in the air and he had smelled the smoke before. But he and Stjornuati had always been smart enough to move on before it followed and consumed them too. And to save a child from its clutches, to steal such from the very gaping jaws of death itself? That made this fellow almost of a higher tier than the lowly hellions they were. He was hreystimaðr of the meek.

Intrigue was enough for him to reveal himself then, his emergence no doubt seeming to materialize him from dim features as his gaze did not waver from the sight of their pale companion. The ravens called to one another—on the ground below, in the canopies above—and his voice rumbled to grate against them.

“Hann er hreint,” he told Stjornuati.

Not tainted, not like them who still searched for their hringja.

This one had answered a call from the grave and won.

They were looking for a raven to guide them.

A tentative flick of his ear; Akai remembered the singsongs softly uttered to him in the warm, down-y den by the spiralling serpentine river of a Kuta playing tricks upon the wolves in the way of disguise. Black feathers within the night became shining black eyes unseen by mortal dwellers of the earth, and hopping upon silent feet he'd whisper ideas and paths into those clueless animals, heard in their very own voices. No, he couldn't stuff what he thought to be truth onto a creature that seemed so holy in his own right-- no doubt this 'Stjörnuáti' would have his own ideas crafted from his experiences in the world, sung onto him by the elders above. 

"... Well met then, Stjörnuáti af Stormskýli." A small dipping of his wide skull. The lick of desperation that colored his next statement was unwanted yet inevitable. "My name is Akai, and... I am simply looking for a safe space in life where I can collect my thoughts and raise the little one who I have found."

The pause had been to check his own resoluteness in the matter. It had been so many moons since he had seen his sisters face that Akai was beginning to forget the littler details now, no matter how much he stilled himself and no matter how hard he searched the waters or prayed to an unanswering sky. A sigh had begun to settle in his throat like fog, begging for release, but all at once a large black shadow with a voice of thunder had appeared to speak in lowly tones he did not understand-- but there was no panic. The white wolf was not in the mood to jump to his feet and bare his fangs at the intrusion, not when the language told a tale of its own.

"Your brother, I presume...?" The scarred face of the golden eyed wolf turns to regard Solpallur, dark as Kuta himself; how different the brothers were. Like sunrise and sunset... a pang within his heart; his sister were blizzard and gale. Snow and ice. Sadness failed to capture his expression... but the wolf felt it none the less like the beating of his heart.

Akai, The Nordic wolf repeated, the name managing to roll off his tongue in a fashion much less clumsy than the stilted tongue of these lands did. Akai í Hrafnsjáandi. A glance to his brother was made, the statement made to catch him up on what Stjornuati thought of the man. The facet of a man respected was captured in that name, a tradition they had carried with them from Stormskýli.

Já. Þetta er Solpallur. This one's bróðir.

Introductions made, the pale creature of the north sank into thought for a moment, allowing his companion to make whatever conversation he felt like (probably none) before his tongue wagged again, speaking orð hjartans. You and sá litli, little one, join this one. And Solpallur, by default. We will protect. The last word was said fiercely, with a conviction that speared through the unknown and offered a paw to the other man.

As if they approved this idea, the ravens murmured and twittered amongst themselves, hopping around the carcass and the wolves that stood near.

Ravenseer was an apt title for the pallid canine; Solpallur backed this declaration with a nod. Protecting him and his little one seemed a fair trade to have them come along, if nothing else than a tribute to nature itself. Kin and kith before oneself—he and Stjornuati had operated this way for as long as he could remember, and it was a duty extended to those who came and went from their journey.

They all had a hringja to answer to and the beckoning chatter of the ravens did not sway him against the idea in spite of himself. “Já,” he rejoined, as though the terseness of the word would do anything at all to sway the Ravenseer. “Segðu honum að koma og hlaupa með okkur,” he said to Stjornuati, “kannski getur hann kennt okkur til að temja þessar óbyggðir.”

They had strayed from their path, Solpallur moreso than Stjornuati, but the hrafn did not trust lightly. Nor did the Stormskýli pair either, but even at their most basal nature, they held onto the faint reverence for the world around them. The path was never lost, however misguided and disused.

Join…?

Oh, he didn’t know about that. The betrayals of the past stung him like a knife through the chest, the wolves that had once chattered idly with him turned upon the small male like lightning flashes within a storm. They had torn his face, they had left him bleeding in the snow, and they had once been his brothers as well. Once, he had found safety in their circle… more than once he had been burned by the wrath of blood-hungry wolves searching for a weakness to exploit. The thoughts were made visible by the low-laying of his ears, the downturn of his mouth, the gentle look to the side. 

“I could not ask you to protect those who are the enemy of wolves here.” Kingslend’s words had stung him, his winter-y pelt having drawn their aggravation. “I could not ask you to get hurt because of us; we have very little to offer you, and any debt will struggle to be repaid.”

His little Minah, strange as she was, was worth little. She had no hunting skills really, no tracking skills either and perhaps failed to read the tone of the air far too many times than the white wolf could count; and so it would be left to him to repay the brothers, and what could he offer but the ways of the stars…? Would they care, would it ever be enough? And yet, and yet…!

The wolf was far too soft.

“But…” A golden gaze shone upon an outstretched paw, “... I think I would be a fool to turn down your kindness.”

Gently, awkwardly (for the movement was strange to he who usually bowed his head for most actions), Akai touched his warm paw-pad against the blonde wolf’s paw with a shaky smile forming upon his muzzle. He had to forgive, not let new kindness shrink in the shadow of old friendships spurned, and perhaps having one or two friends out here was not such a bad idea after all. He spared that same curt smile to the large black fellow without a lick of common-tongue about him, and uttered very softly,

“Perhaps I could teach you common-tongue in return…” How painfully unaware of what value he really had to the brothers and their wantings, “I will follow you to your dens… and I will call the girl.”

Ominously, as if the shadows were lifting, the birds hushed themselves, turned their dark gazes upwards and fled with the barest tufts of raven feathers falling from the ground. In the quiet that kissed the end-beats of their wing-tips, the feeling of relaxation flowed over Akai’s body like the rush of a warm breeze.

It felt… nice to know that kind creatures still existed in this world.

He waited for the Ravenseer to decide, to process his way through his thoughts in a series of words that he could mostly catch on to. Putting himself in harm's way was of no issue to the pallid northerner; if Stjornuati offered his protection, then it was with the knowledge that he could be injured for someone he barely knew. The raven's trusted him, though, and it was a fated card played in Akai's favor.

The offer of common tongue lessons made his ears perk the slightest bit, considering the possibilities. Já. Solpallur need much teachings of this tongue. A grin was shot his brothers way beforee his tail waved, looking to their newest companion. Call sá litli, He encouraged, waiting for the girl so the pair of siblings could show them to Raven's Watch.

Fade!