Dawnlark Plains θ

loose timeline <3

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for now it felt as though the plains had settled. each day took its turn in the hall of chaos, however; what stood now might not tomorrow. but @Ayovi was changing, and each detail held skorpa in a thrall vaguely terrified.

it was her appetite that had him hunting again, scouring for some fat fowl or foolish game to stray his way. the man's reek was high, and the bearskin was slung around him. very much did he wish for their mountain's return, but he kept himself direct upon a path now.

ptarmigan. he carried its body back to where he had last seen his wife, eyes intent in all directions for those hunters of saatsine or darukaal. there was still no trust for them in skorpa, and he did not intend to let that go for a long while.

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fury leads him away from the cache and into open land. a mind heavy, a crown even heavier. thoughts of turmoil. thoughts of chaos. he does not trust and he is not trusted.

his mind turns to a hunt, and he scents the air. only to find rot, carrion; his nose curls, and red eyes search. it is there he sees the bearskin man, and blackfell circles briefly, imprinting his paws upon the snow, chin raised, chuffing over the distance between them.

it is taut.

this is the man who won the snow woman from his cousin, the one from the meeting.

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with silentsnow he had hunted. boon given in the spraying breath of white feathers and fat-laced meat. determinedly did northman stalk the frozen taiga, looking for the tell-tale dark lines of their beaks, the birds nested down into the snow.

attention seized the man. a vaguely familiar wolf approached, and skorpa left off his hunt to allow this discourse's beginning.

scents exchanged. "du er en af de rensdyrjægere," bearfang observed, proverbial arm slung over the haft of metaphorical axe. "hunting?"

something was rather wrong. off. he knew its smell: conflict.

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blackfell inhales deeply as the norseman comes. there is distance between them but it is not angry, does not fizzle with the tragedy of war. the onyx man extends his neck, sniffing his scent then, smelling what the man had hunted in the past days.

blackfell turns his eyes skyward, to see the circling of the raven. it swoops, he follows, licking at his jowls as he observes. the raven does not cry. does not sing. he does not warn.

blackfell turns eyes back to skorpa. i am not. he corrects with a click of his teeth, turning to look upon the path he had weaved through the snow of the plains. tracks, leading to him should someone follow. he swats at them, with snow, covering the last of them. no longer. blackfell blows a breath.

i challenged the chieftain and he would not fight. but then his wife, blackfell's eyes seem to flash with a sorrow at the mention of her, she goes into labor and i spare his life. for her. a mercy he might not give again, should they cross.

we hunt. he raises his head in curiosity.

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another northman. it seemed the taiga was full of them, though skorpa thought he himself was far more memorable than either faust or this one.

so there was indeed tension, and this man had come from it. "klanerne her blev enige om fred. lad ham bryde den, ikke dig."

no one else wanted to know their chaos, save for perhaps skorpa. it was hard to put to death those aspects of his nature which had always saved his life. blooded teeth glinted; manly clapping to that tense shoulder invited the former saatsine hunter along.

ayovi, round and pinking like a globe mallow. the mention of sun clan woman's birth reminded him that her own was imminent, and skorpa was consumed by a bolt of homesickness for the calm of her arms. a settlehearth. a happy wife. children playing beyond the mouth of the den. he did not welcome this news, but appreciated his companion's willingness to speak.

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it is hard to make himself move any further from the cache when he wants nothing more than to turn and go to war. to fight, to cut down any and all who sought to oppose morwenna. that began with sun eater. he feels a deep, dark grudge in his chest. it was wide. it would last for lifetimes.

blackfell watches with careful, quiet eyes that betray nothing. the man with bear hide slung over his shoulders comes and clasps a hand over his shoulder. blackfell sniffs, eyes flashing as they drop from top of head to bottom of jaw. he will. blackfell says, gruffly. it is matter'o'fact. sun eater was restless and he would go to take what he wanted, when he wanted.

there was only satisfaction in knowing that blackfell would take with him two of his strongest, if black hawk was not forgiven for what he would see as insolence. a flash of teeth; a smile, but not born of kindness. born of a tension caught in his throat and chest. they walk and blackfell casts a final glance in the direction he had come from. expecting warriors at any point to come, to try and dispose of him, as the man had done with morwenna's brother.

perhaps he was smart enough to not—for they would not return home.

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preserving this new development in entirety for the ears of his diplomatic woman, skorpa cut the snow for he and the man. no name was given, and the northman did not ask. they were bonded beneath the gods, beneath the hope of Valhalla. fighting had scoured the other. he wore the marks of a long and violent life.

in this, skorpa found comfort. camaraderie. he did not yet know the darkpelt man upon his peak. but this warrior, this warrior would not need translation nor succor.

twinned in strength, he directed them to descend deeper into dawnlark, searching for one of the reindeer-chief's caribou. the man at his side carried a skill that the bearsword wished to use, former affiliation notwithstanding.

it was not skorpa's quarrel. he had meat to bring home to his wife. marvelling then, with a flash of bloodstained teeth, how he had become such a husband.

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it is the call of the hunt that draws him forth. flanking at the side of the bearman, moving with strides that eat at the snowy plains, a vigor rushing his veins. there is strength in silence of the two men. blackfell is eager to drink it in, to bask in this temporary leave from all.
to turn his mind to the task ahead is easy; he nudges himself onwards, searching through the snow for hint of prey. branching away from the stinking man at an angle, casting his head downwards to scan the ground with greater precision.
looking over to inspect the man for a moment. an experienced hunter, one blackfell would be glad to hunt aside. and in that: a potential for alliance. it was not possible to remain neutral, not permanently—not in this world, in this life. to take up arms was to breathe, to live. it was the way of the norseman. to fight.
he catches both scent and tracks, coming to a slow stop for just a moment to flag at the man. then, they fell into step once more. blackfell searching to take the flank, dropping his dark hide amongst the brush where he would be best hidden in the bright expanse.

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a pair of silvered axes in the snowdrifting. skorpa moved and the long-hunter aided. they sequestered themselves among scrubbage; he tasted the earth once and saw that the trail was fresh.

a cow. a calf. she would fight harder to protect than any male, and skorpa did not linger. "ayovi bliver nødt til at samle mig op i småstykker," came the dryness of his low voice.

and he wished to return there, to their gleamstone den with its red-ochred wall and his happy wife glowing in the gods' blessing of life. he had all he wanted.

no. there were others here, and the bearman was patient, in good health, and with a skilled companion at his side. they would not fail.

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blackfell moves apart, veering left. distance widens quietly, paws sinking silent into snowdrift. eyes lock onto another target—an older cow, lagging, gait uneven. limp clear in each careful step.
she moves slowly, cautious. breath steams visibly, labored. easy prey.
he stalks closer, body low, powerful shoulders rolling beneath dark fur. teeth itch, hunger sharp. adrenaline pulses, hot despite winter’s bite. his eyes flick once to skorpa.
he explodes forward. muscles surge beneath dark fur, power unleashed in a swift, violent rush. snow sprays beneath pounding paws. he closes fast.
she turns sharply, panic flashing in wide eyes. her limp betrays her, stumbling, hind leg faltering. an opening for skorpa.

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first northman moved. the second braced to wait, to wait, to wait, to wait; to rear and bring teeth crashing down upon that panicked neck, twisting to thrash the creature's weakness into the snow.

skorpa held. another lupine axe would fall. and then his own again in rhythm. blood sacrifice to wolves and to the gods of wolves.

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he surges.
jaws crash down upon the creature’s flank, teeth sinking deep, finding purchase in flesh. a violent twist, a brutal wrench—ripping, tearing, dragging it down into the snow. the earth stains red beneath them, steaming against the cold.
rhythm. blood. the hunt demands it.

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blackfell descending. skorpa followed. beaten breath and blood eked for gods, and northbound hunters drove to final knee the shared target.

dividing even then the killing blow between, a gout of red drenching.

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the beast stumbles under his weight, brought low by fang and fury. then skorpa follows, swift and merciless, a second axe in rhythm.
they strike together. jaws find the throat, shoulder, rib. the creature thrashes once, twice—then no more. the killing blow is not his or skorpa’s. it is both. a shared claim carved in flesh.
blood sprays, hot against the cold, painting their hides in red sacrament. a hunt finished. it is like he may say something—but nothing comes. without ceremony, he lowers his head. teeth sink into the flank, tearing muscle from bone. he eats in silence.

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they ate in companionable silence, each neither dominating nor standing back. what was not devoured would be divided, down to bones, pelt, and antlers.

the ravens supped well beside the wolves.

skorpa did not speak when his belly was stretched with meat, only belched and laughed loud.

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