Raven's Watch you only understand the language of the sword

The climbing seemed to never quite end, having scaled the ridge up into the mountains. Though he was a wolf made for it, the journey skyward took its toll. If not for the call of ravens in their roosts, Solpallur would have called their trek to an early end to rest. But the sight and sound of such little helpers was a boon to discover—the overlook revealed the lower climes that seemed untouched and unburdened. Better yet was that the ravens did not seem disturbed by them; he went one way, @Stjornuati another, and the surrounding scenery engulfed them soon thereafter.

Some time later, the two had reconvened at rest along the lofty pocket where a lake was.

“Mér líst vel á þennan stað,” he said to his brother with a sigh, lying out on his side with a stretch. “Þetta er eins og heima, með hrafnunum.” Had he been able to, he would have cawed for the effect, a poor attempt at a joke. They hadn’t known home in a long, long time now. Home was where they rested for a spell, whether it a night or a week; home was where the other was, and they had been consumed by their dispersal, bachelor life.

They were content, being alone. These lands were good to them.

Kynareth’s heavy paws take him further north by days. Again, he is scouting for a place for his pack to go. A new place. Though he is quite in love with his canyon of red, he will have to come back to it another day. For now, he craves water. His throat felt gritty from the travel and his body sore, paw pads roughed up and bleeding in a place or two. He is used to it. He travels hard distances to train himself too. This is no different.

So water he craves, trotting casually he recognizes this area, has seen it from a distance. He goes towards the smaller lake that’s nestled comfortably next to the mountain. Though when he turns the corner he’s stops in his step, seeing the two wolves before him. A loose expression displaying something akin to surprise, he quickly rights himself and offers a casual smile and a chuff. “Evening,” he greets to the two.

What a sight to behold, the roost of the raven's a sign of good fortune to the man of the North. Lips curling upward slightly into a smile, the familiar cry of the birds filling his soul with what he could only call joy; many memories of his fair-feathered friends swirled into though now, though no single recollection was settled upon. There was no point to dwell on such things, not when the sound and sight of the intelligent creatures was present in the here and now.

A sound akin to a croon left Stjornuati's throat, eyes searching the trees for a few moments before looking to his blood-and-soul brother. ]Sannarlega. Við —

Fur spiked along his ruff and spine, ears thrusting forward pointedly as his posture became defensive, dominant, and aggressive; Stjornuati had never appreciated surprises and, in his enthrallment with the birds and his brother, the appearance of another had set him on edge. Liver colored eyes trained on the annað, noting many things all at once before addressing him, using words to delay what might be a similar, more aggressive response from Solpallur.

Nefndu sjálfan þig, The Nordic man demanded of the creature, before repeating himself in the common tongue for the benefit of the stranger. Name yourself.

They had let their guard down.

In the moments before, his eyes went half-lidded as his voice trailed off. A yawn split his jaw in two; rest would be good tonight, he thought. Safely nestled in the crook of the watch’s arm along the lake, they would perhaps replenish their stamina in full rather than go through restless stages. No stirring to strange rustling or waking from disorienting dreams. No fear or threat—the ravens would keep them aware if trouble came.

Except for when they didn’t, as birds were wont to do; they hadn’t made their offering for aid.

So when Stjornuati’s words cut off and he rose to a bristling mess at the sound of another, Solpallur reacted similarly. Forget the throes of wanting rest, someone had come to encroach in the bastion they had found for the night. A snarl had turned up on his face as he swung around to face the other, only to find that this wolf stood taller than he. They were built similarly, and there was no doubt to Solpallur that a drengr stood before them.

This did not deter either of them, nor should it. It was two on one.

A low growl bubbled in his throat, but Stjornuati did the talking; Solpallur let his gaze linger, searching this drengr for weakness, for worth. His lips pulled back to bare his teeth—his words had best satisfy them.

Kynareth stands before the two, he’s not truly surprised by their reaction, he did kind of come out of nowhere. Though he isn’t frightened or impressed either. Simply due to the fact that he doesn’t want to get eaten right now he won’t be an asshole. Even though apparently not being an asshole physically and mentally hurts him.

He nods to them one more. Lowering his head and attempting to lower his highly, curled tail that many believe to be dominant gesture. This is the most he will submit. He will not roll over belly up for some strangers. “Kynareth Deagon. Nice to meet you two. Just came to grab water from a long journey if you don’t mind.” He offers with a casual, charming smile.

The smile and its charm was lost on the wolf of pale fur, more intent on the male's actions and presentation than the shape and truth of his smile. Still, he did as "asked", answering with a foreign sounding name; then again, foreign to Stjornuati was anything not of his homelands, so for all he was aware that sort of name was normal here. The curl of his tail was largely ignored. Displays meant nothing. This man had not earned their respect or subservience and so whatever paltry mechanisms of this land operated with meant nothing to the pair.

Where do you seek? The question, perhaps phrased oddly, was less commanding this time. His hackles began to settle out as the male had provided nothing to make them wary. Besides, if anything, it was two against one and the odds did not stack in his favor. Stjornuati, comfortable once more, offered him name in return. Stjörnuáti and Solpallur af Stormskýli. He did not indicate which name belonged to which wolf. Whether that was by design or oversight was unclear.

He watched as the other, this Kynareth, tried to appease them. A lowered head, a shift of his usually curly tail; it’s not an entirely unwelcome sight to see but with the words that follow, it’s meaningless. It does not change the curl of his lips or coax him into relaxing. There was something off about this drengr that does not sit well with Solpallur—he knows there is confidence and then there is megalomania, and this creature screams of the latter. And if he is truly a drengr, then he was formidable and the latter was perhaps justly learned or earned. Whichever did not matter.

It is his smile that is the most unsettling, and not his words.

Under the right circumstances, they were a threat to each other.

“Farðu þá,” Solpallur tells him, “byrjað.” Get his drink from where he pleases and disappear from whence he came. His gaze shifted to Stjornuati then, as though to command him: “Ekki segja honum neitt.” It would sound unfriendly and it was, truly, but his brother would see between the lines.

Kynareth is dumbfounded. He has absolutely zero idea what they are saying. Their language lost to the Saint, he can’t even comprehend what language that could even be. Yet thankfully one speaks the common tongue for sec, allowing Donovan to get at least something from the interaction — water. 

His request though. Where do you seek? He wants to question just exactly what he means before really connecting it. What is he looking for? Then the second one, still bearing teeth, speak said mysterious language again and Don is trying not to make a disrespectful facial expression. He straight faces it and offers a nod to the pair, making eye contact with both briefly before easily making his way to the water. 

He positions himself so that he can easily see the two before him while also not turning his back on them. One can never be too suspicious with those he doesn’t trust, or just strangers in general. 

Bowing his upper body, his muscles shift enticingly beneath his striped pelt. He takes his eyes off them directly , but watches out of the corner of his eye. His black-purple tongue revealing itself as he laps at the liquid. Drinking his fill, he finally stands and offers a grateful look to the two.

“Can I ask where you two are from?” Comes his cautious question. He can’t help but be curious.

The command of his brother was noted and set to the side for a moment; While Stjornuati agreed that no information should be shared with the creature opposite them, he also knew that they did need information and he was willing to trade, to a certain point. Besides, names held no power over the pair, having many names wound around their souls. Such were the ways of the Stormskýli, and of their more established brethren, Tartok. Many names for the many facets of their beings.

The Stareater watches as the male drinks his fill, eyes the color of a wolf's innards strung from a tree watching with an intensity reserved for those he did not know or trust. The question was answered in an easy fashion, vague but not all at once. North. He paused, glancing to his brother for a moment before expounding upon the answer with a simple adjective. Far north.

Still, the fact that his question had been ignored ruffled his guardhairs and so he questioned again in response. Where do you seek? His journey must have had a purpose. Did he also answer to the hringja? Somehow, Stjornuati doubted this.

So the big bad burly wolf wouldn’t turn his back to them… Solpallur made note of this just as easily as Stjornuati disregarded his instruction. He nipped at his brother’s flank then but it did nothing to deter him. He was invested in interrogation now and Solpallur was an unwilling passenger in this ride.

Grumbling to himself as he let go of his brother’s skin between his teeth as swiftly as he had grabbed it, his gaze returned and locked with that of the stranger in their midst. Would he actually be informational and answer them? Solpallur doubted it; there was something he still could not place about the strange Kynareth. Draugr or not, his actions were suspect and already Solpallur had thought of the little sanctuary as their own.

“Answer,” he commanded this time of Kynareth, finding the word and throwing it like a pointed dagger.

His inquiry is only answered with a few simple words and he is instantly regretting ever asking. They just seem suspicious as fuck, though he doesn’t truly let his suspicion show. Another question back, one he asked earlier if Donovan believes right. 

Where do you seek? 

A safe place for my pack. He wants to say, yet he knows there’s no such thing as safe. They can only get stronger to prosper in these lands, gotta play the game and such. Though when the darker of the two nips at his companion he raises a cream brow to the two. A light smile coming to his maw as the other piggybacks off of the others question with a demand of answer. 

Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be? He thinks for a moment. Not worried about much with these two he nods once, smile still in place. “I am looking for a place to settle my pack, if you wish to know. I’m scouting ahead, perhaps to find somewhere suitable. So far, I have not.” He ends easily. Oh, what shall these two interesting souls say now?

The pinch brought only a twitch of his haunch in response, dark eyes waiting for a response from the man. The yin to his yang always, Solpallur's irritation did not ruffle feathers, instead creating a balm that only served to strengthen Stjornuati's resolve; the calm to his dark brother's storm, the stareater regarded the mottled creature across from them with a coolness to his gaze, curious and guarded all the same.

Not a stranger to the movement of a pack, there was less of a concern with why his pack wass settling elsewhere than there was curiosity to it. Why? He would pose, the question pointed but not aggressive. Was it the onset of Winter? Following a herd? Or something else?

Slowly, the common tongue gathered in his head before falling clumsily off his tongue, better than his brother could have weilded the language but clumsy all the same: Who does run with? A pause, a furrowed brow. Who... does you run with? That still didn't sound right but hopefully, his question came across.

Scouting for a place for his pack—this dashed any possibility that this encounter was in fact a boon. If this drengr had others in tow of him that were similar, it would not bode well for them. Two against one and he knew they could drive out the offender from their camp. But multiples? A pack? Solpallur would have laughed were things not so grave; it was örlög that laughed instead.

It could have been a sign.

Satisfied with the answer, he once again let Stjornuati do the talking for them.

Kyn is entertained by this pairs broken words. And as the blonde stares judgmentally at him, he allows his friend to carry the brunt of the conversation. He can only assume that he can’t speak any of the common tongue. This language is obviously foreign to them so Donovan doesn’t judge too harshly. Rather he seems quite amused and raises a brow as the lighter of the two tries to ask the Grandmaster another question. 

“Who do I run with?” He parrots his broken question, hoping to assist with his pronunciation. “I run with my pack, The Saints.” He chirps pleasantly. 

But now that his thirst has quenched and it seems these two claim this area he decides his time here is over. Turning slightly to head back the direction he came he begins languidly moving out. “Thank you for letting me grab a drink, but I must be off now.” He hums his thanks with a thoughtful dip of his head. He will pad off unless stopped by the two.

The Saints. The words meant nothing more to him than the titter of the birds above, his knowledge of the local packs next to nothing other than the fact that they were present iin the area. Everything else that was said was met with silence that was not impressed or unimpressed. It was just silence, and so would it continue to be as the brothers struck onward with their exploration.

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