Barrow Fields The interesting thing
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Ooc — Zina
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#1
All Welcome 
Near the Watch, first post is @Stjornuati
@Solpallur
The days were growing shorter. Colder. For weeks she had pushed herself on her own along the same path her brothers had taken. It had been her path to find. Her fur had already become plush and soft from the thick undercoat that had restored itself. Thank the Gods that Freya had bestowed upon her such furs to keep her warm during a bitterly wet journey. On her own it seemed nearly impossible that she might find them, even from their trails.
At one point, their trail had abruptly vanished, or else was washed away such that she was unable to locate them again.
Valmúa was positive they had done it all on purpose. They wanted to leave her behind. Her, the only interesting damn thing in their lives they wanted to be rid of. Idiots.
Every day grew more dull without someone to torment. Every sunset grew uglier. Eventually even she started to grow ugly as her muscles wasted and her body consumed itself. What a shitty mechanic. But eventually a heartbeat from the heavens banged its foul instrument hard when she awoke one especially shitty morning
Hringja. Its alluring song called her name that day stronger than it had even been when she’d left Stormhaven. She followed it. It felt like the worst headache she had ever had, which she supposed made some sense since those two dumbasses were the worst headache anyone had ever had.
The trail she found late in the afternoon was fresh. She ventured over coastlines, past mountain ranges, until Val was positive they were close. She narrowed her eyes, creeping through the brush, searching for them.
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Today was a day that was like any other. To another wolf, that might mean something boring, unassuming, but to Stjornuati, it meant rising with the sun, to confer with the ravens and to answer the call that sung deep in his heart. 

It was the hringja that was different this day, the melody twining along to a cadence that had him actively searching. Perhaps it was the dark-feathered birds that seemed to follow him through the Watch, the titter of their song excited and chatty as if spurning and encouraging him onward. 

What was it that they knew, that he did not? 

A breeze moved through the trees, chilly but… His nose lifted, paws stopped, one lifted as if frozen mid-step. Recognition fired across the synapses in his mind. Excitement turned his body and guided him along the scent trail, barely minding the branches and leaves that smacked his muzzle and caught in his fur. Familiarity launched him the few remaining feet, catching that ginger-furred menace vandræðagemsi with his body and tackling her to the ground.

A snarl, twisted and terrible, tore through the Watch, the birds flighting away a few branches before the sound died away, leaving a scene of comic annoyance: his sister pinned beneath his larger, stronger form while he mouthed at her muzzle and ears, seeking to greet her with the annoyance that he had made himself to be ever since they were but börn.
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He knocked the wind right out of her chest as the world was thrown upside down. An outrageous snarl rattled in her head as she struggled to breathe. Screeches of sparrows sounded a great alarm, shrill on the cold wind. He really was excellent at making her headaches worse.
Abruptly, Valmúa burst into a loud, noisy, snorting laughter. She used every ounce of breath in her strained chest to laugh in her hálfviti brother's face, spittle flying from her defiant lips. She inhaled sharply to continue this laughing fit, then grabbed one of his wrists with her mouth and rolled her body hard to the side, flinging herself into his legs to perform a reversal.
This was much harder to do given the amount of weight she had lost on the way there, and all she managed was to press her back nails hard into his crotch. She let go of his wrist and shouted, Farðu í rassgat!!, which was a curse she'd commonly used since learning it in childhood.
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Teeth on his wrist were a bother. A foot kicking his dick was a sár án blóðs, one that had his body hunch over the flailing form of the one he shared blood with. A pained grunt, a moment of blackness swam in his vision before it consumed everything in its entirety.

His form crumpled, weight falling upon her like a sack of potatoes. From this he would not move by his own volition, not until he came back around, at the very least.
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Why was he so fucking heavy?!
Stjor must have been eating every piece of fatty beast he could find. Sol had probably gotten just as massive while they were gallivanting in this strange, southern place. Fat pieces of shit, the both of them.
Valmúa groaned and moaned underneath of his thick, lazy body. Worth it, she thought, enjoying his male pain like a fine beverage even as she struggled to breathe under him. She wiggled her head from the massive blob of his overfluffed neck, cursing in the common tongue, Eat a dick. Finally she was able to mostly roll herself from under him as she kicked at him; her back legs and waist were still trapped.
Hélt að þú myndir fara frá mér? she hissed in a strained voice, still trying to pull herself out.
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If he heard the dulcet, angry tones of his sister then there was no indication. And truthfully, how could he have resisted responding to such bitterness? Stoiciscm broke when his reddened sister was around, their bond too close to keep such face around her.

His body moved only when shifted by her struggles, unknowingly holding her hostage for her trangression.
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Kisa. What a little bitch. One shot in the goodies and Stjor was down for the count, unable to lift himself from her. She scrambled like a cat half caught in tube that was just too narrow, pushing with all her limited might at his body, annoyed beyond belief. As usual, she had done this to herself, but the fault was his and his alone. He started it.
She shouted something like a war cry at her predicament, struggling for a solid minute before she finally accepted the position she was in was permanent until he decided to do something about it. She wondered what would happen if she'd killed him. She imagined Sol would just sit there and watch his brother rotting on top of her while she was forced to chew her way out.
Valmúa narrowed her eyes, looking ahead of her but talking to his temporarily out of order body. Hvað, áttu skyndilega kúlur Óðins? Please.
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Valmua would have been right in her assumption—Solpallur would in fact, much rather watch her struggle than come to her aid. And he did such for a spell, first drawn in by the familiar fire-tongue in her mouth with surprise only to watch his brother go down by her well-timed actions. That had been the most entertaining to him, though her appearance held him still out of interest as well. After all this time, he had not quite expected her to show up, and could not recall the last time that he had seen her. The days and stories of their travels were long and winding, much of which had been lost to him in favor of focus on other things. Namely, their survival.

But so far, they had thrived beneath the canopies where now were more decked out with ravens than leaves in his estimation. The rocky slopes and ravines beyond and below them had been a source of replenishment that seemed to favor them and while their band rested and grew here and there, he felt the hringja reach him all the same. It may have been time to move on, but he was not quite up to par himself.

Too many tangles as of late, too many trivial, superficial marks that slowed him.

But not enough to charge from where he lurked towards Valmua.

He intended to teach her a lesson as he happened upon her beneath Stjornuati, her disgraceful and uncoordinated thrashings giving him reason to grab her scruff and pull her along as harshly as their lineage dictated. Something they had always done to one another or any other combination, it was helping just as much as it was punishment for the error of her decisions. She was trapped, exposed, and he was teacher as much as he was punisher.
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Slowly, he came to, jostled by movement and groaning in the dull roar of his pain. He, too, had learned a lesson this day: that his undercarriage was sensitive and was something to be protected from such strikes, though this would not stop him from wrestling his siblings in the future.

Letting Solpallur drag Valmua away now, the gold and cream wolf lifted his leg and curled around to soothe his pain with long and sure strokes of his stung, also ensuring that he wasn't, in fact, bleeding, even if he felt like he should have been.
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The moment she spotted Solpallur, Valmúa felt her stomach churn. She knew exactly what was coming, because it was always the thing they did to one another when they disapproved. The boys in particular were prone to physical action, and Sol used words only when absolutely necessary, being practically mute.
Val couldn't tell if Stjor had woke or not. She hoped he wouldn't. She didn't want them ganging up on her. They all had ganged up on one another at one point or another, but Val knew that she was momentarily weaker than usual and unable to fight back properly. They would not kill her, but hurting her? Well..
She flattened to the ground as Sol's dark figure approached, soundless and imposing. She didn't try to get away from it. He scruffed her harshly and pulled, and she yipped sharply in response. She yipped like she had as a pup, but writhed and tried to snap at the air. For a moment she refused the discipline until her legs came free from Stjor's mass. Then, she submitted to her elder brother's punishment, curling her tail between her legs and shrinking as he pulled and put real pressure on her.
Valmúa stayed silent. Mouth would get her nowhere for now.
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Valmua writhed in his grasp, squealing a churlish note as Stjornuati stirred. Solpallur did not drag her far, not wishing to do any more damage to her scruff than necessity to get his point across of her error. It was a firm grip, bordering a threat to tear the skin if he hauled her too long; when he felt he had worried the skin enough he had let go, his attention flitting to his brother as he nursed his own pains.

Hræðilegt, he rumbled, though he may as well have said that they were both pathetic. His gaze went back to his sister then, sharp and attentive—he would not be caught as unaware as he perceived his brother to have been. Not that he believed she would try, because he thought certain she would though chances were she knew better to pull another stunt so quickly.

Afhverju gerir þú? Hvað ef einhver annar hefði komið með? Ground out words with a growl from a fluid, fluent tongue; he did not believe them to be safe there, not with the wolves that lurked with naught much more than stone and elevation between them. They had already had encounters with them and ever the recluse of his own design, Solpallur did not wish to invite any more trouble than had been accrued.
we are born of one breath, one word
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To his feet he rose, purpose and and a rare display of vindictiveness drawing him close to the other two so that his head could snake down and deliver a pinch to Valmua's side, and then another to her shoulder, and a final on her haunch. She would have done it anyway, He said in answer to his brother's interrogation, though there was no malice in his voice but mirth. Kick me in the dick again and I will drag you around these wilds by your tail.

You followed us? He asked then, glancing at Solpallur, wondering how long Valmua had been on their trail. Was it been the hringja that had called her here, same as them? or the stubbornness of a sister that wished to be involved in the goings-on of her brothers?
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I'm open to fading this here or next round
Rather than answering her dark brother directly, she grinned. Like a child caught in the act of some heinous, disastrous crime that she still thought was funny even though she was in trouble for it. Stjornuati joined in the action, giving her some nasty pinches. She flinched at each, laughing as though he was tickling her.
She rolled over quickly and licked Solpallur's chin and lips, annoyingly submissive in order to satisfy her own humour. Stjor was right, of course, she would have done it regardless of whether or not anyone else was around. Valmúa broke off this overt display to answer the question, grinning slyly. I did, she said, knowing it gave them zero answers. Miss me?
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“Nei,” he said brusquely. He hadn’t missed her—that was a genuine remark.

Truth be told, he hadn’t thought much of his family beyond Stjornuati since they had departed the north. They may as well have all existed in another life, one that he had left behind to follow the call of another. A part of not only himself that had been burned away, but his brother too.

“Why did you follow us?” he asked of her then, their northern tongue rolling sharp off his teeth. It seemed so unusual after all this time to find her among them, perhaps even stranger to him that they had been found. Her discovery of them had to have been recent; they would have noticed her trailing them long before now.
we are born of one breath, one word
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Gina gave permission to skip
Hmph. What a kúta. She knew better, of course. Solpallur wasn't really the sort to miss anybody. Of all of them, he was the one that was trained most to instinct without emotion. He went where the skies willed him to be, always feeling the natural world about them instead of his own damned heart and soul.
Valmúa, in contrast, functioned almost entirely on emotion and the gut instinct one associates with desire. The three of them were alternate sides to the same strange Nordic die.
Hringja, she said. The earth led me to you, she said, snorting at him as if in defiance. It felt almost like he questioned her validity for even being there, which was not something she would accept. The call was sacred. He knew it. The old gods had brought her here for a reason, she just didn't know why yet.
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He held her tightly in his gaze to search her own, but he found nothing in the quicksilver there. It could have been a lie and he thought it so, but without proof there was ought he could do. The nature of the hringja was a strange thing, all their fates bound together in some form or fashion that he did not entirely understand.

“The earth leads fools off cliffs too,” he said then, an ugly laugh leaving him. It was short, the nature of it clipped as he could not hold mirth for long. Like water through a sieve, he would simply have to wait and see. Stjornuati believed all of this was the work of the hringja, but Solpallur was not quite the seer that their brother was.

He turned away then to leave, suddenly bored of the conversation.

The suneater wanted to brood.
we are born of one breath, one word
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PP permission from Stjornuati's player

Whatever welcome she had been expecting, this had not been it. She sneered openly as her dark brother stared at her and spoke his dark humour. She was no fool; surely they both knew that. Yet Stjornuati did not defend her, for they had seen her young self in Stormhaven and knew her to be no wise creature.
They did not run her own, and this alone she took from her simple brother to mean a lame acceptance of her presence. Stjornuati said nothing. He nipped her again rather harshly on the neck. The pressure given from them both would see her bruised from several days. Strangely, rather than feeling malice for this treatment, it was comfortable and familiar. She had spent enough time having free reign.
This was a place of revision once again. She stood at attention as Solpallur and Stjornuati left here there. She followed where they were heading, not to intrude but only to stay near them at a respectful distance. They were together once more, whatever such a thing meant.
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