Raven's Watch tender, the body

fast-forwarded a few days after this thread. pledge thread! tagged the brothers but this is welcome to anyone! <3

light snow dusts the cold, hard earth as synin continues heading west following the direction of the biting wind and magna’s whims. the godgift raven soars ahead of him; aerial glimmer of snowwhite against ominously grey sky. glacial gaze tracks her easy flight; admiring. he has not found anything like her before nor any beast like her: pure white feathers, strange pink eyes. his magna is unique and he cherishes her, trusting her judgement over even his own at times.

hitta minn, magna. norseman calls out to the raven; black, leathery nose twitching with the scent of others dawning with each step he draws towards the range that looks as if it were cut from some of ymir’s spine. his steps slow, approaching with caution; comforted as magna heeds his call and perches upon his shoulder with a ruffle of wings. she lets out a caw in his ear, twitching back at her annoyance.

sjálfr vita, he croons to her, wincing as she digs her talons into the warflesh of his shoulder. synin takes this to mean his attempt to placate her without apologizing for summoning her back wasn’t accepted. before he could assure the raven he would make it up to her his words are stolen and breath catches briefly in his throat as he takes true note of the scents that have grown stronger because they bring stark recognition.

the brothers. @Stjornuati and @Solpallur are the ones he most readily recognizes though few others needle at the back of his mind as familiar, too. an inky black raven swoops down, curious about the pair but magna bristles, puffing out her chest and beating her wings, her protest loud and echoing in the quiet cradle of land; territorial over synin. a small chuckle rumbles in the norseman’s throat.

He spied Synin from an outcropping where the shadows fell across him and felt an icy sensation seize him. The wind now had a bite that did not relent and the snows had come, but it wasn’t that which plunged him deep into his recollection. He had seen many who were cloaked just as darkly as he was, but few carried such a deep scarring to their face. It was something he would always remember of Synin, if there were few other things that he chose to recall.

Solpallur descended far quicker than he should have been able to, but the stones were becoming familiar beneath his feet. He stayed close to them now, in part due to the oncoming winter and in part to survey what all amassed below him. He saw less of Stjornuati though they conferred daily; his brother seemed to work at a feverish pace with proper purpose behind him.

But Solpallur still had his doubts—the suneater spent his time surveying, communing with stars, stones, and the little bones the ravens gave him alike. He searched for certainty where he lacked it and though he had found some, it was hardly enough purchase to hand him resolve. It mattered not, at least for now, and he reached the even ground to curtail the distance between himself and an old companion and his raven.

“Synin,” he rumbled, reaching the dark wolf. “It has been far too long, bróðir.”

it is the shadow pelaged brother that makes the descent to greet him, but the fond warmth that steals across synin’s visage is the same, regardless. solpallur! the norseman greets heartily, tail waving in amiable greeting. já, þat hafa, synin responds; concurring. eru þú vel, bróðir? his face lifts ever so slightly towards magna as the raven walks across his shoulders from right to left; covering his blinded side despite that synin felt nothing but kinship and comfortable. trained habits were hard to break, apparently; though magna was a presence all her own and obeyed him only when she felt like it.

ah, synin breathes in deeply the sharp tang of rock and rich, loamy earth; the cleanness of winter. it smells mostly like home. ek gerði eigi hugsekr munu vitþúr hí. magna gives out a small caw of greeting, hopping to balance upon synin’s head lest she be forgotten; drawing forth an affectionate laugh that rumbles within synin’s chest.

“I am well,” he rejoined roughly—he thought he could be better, but knew it could be worse. He had his health at least, his belly full for the times he hungered. These lands were too good to them, even in light of all the unfamiliar faces that had suddenly come flocking to them. Synin was a welcome face to say the least even if they had parted ways far longer than Solpallur cared to recall.

“Stjornuati is here too—and others,” he went on, swinging his head to look over his shoulder as though he anticipated all of such to materialize from thin air. It was a short check, and his gaze was back on his scarred brother-in-arms just as quickly. “We have new others who follow us. My brother collects them like pets. New troubles, brother, always.” A chuckle, every bit as ugly as he was.

despite that their home clans were sisterclans, solpallur ( and co. ) was as brother as any flesh of synin’s and it does the drengr good to hear that he is well. sands of time passed between their last meeting — a battle or a celebration ( or both ) …such things often blurred together. ek lykt þau, synin rumbles in agreement, putting the puzzle pieces together in assumption that this is where the brothers decided to lay claim. thralls? eðerur þeir til fregna okkarr leið?

synin feels magna shift on his shoulder and it draws him out of his thoughts as if he’d taken too long a look in the well of mimir. gerþúr hafroomr fyrir einn meiri? for synin ( and surely magna ) would rather be among swornbrothers than utter strangers who do not understand him any more than he understands them.

“Nei, not thralls,” he said, believing them above that. They were granted their freedom… barring Valmua and her little follower. But even then Solpallur knew that they could not keep them bound to the moor forever—they would find a way to skirt the rules or bend them to their whims, of that he was certain.

“I do not know why they follow us,” he admitted, “but for you we have space. I intend to learn why they follow us in time. Perhaps they follow their hringja or look after themselves.” If their calling meant that they were to serve a higher purpose then so be it, but if it did not then he did not know how long he would entertain their existence among them.

But he did not need to explain this to Synin—the drengr would know.

It was evident in his gaze, all the same.