Duskfire Glacier leave behind your troubles and your worries

small hunting ritual!

A procession of mountain sage and purple-blooming thyme swirled about the glacierside as Satori set the gathered flora in an imperfect ring, the horned shrine at its centre. The blessings given today would protect the soldiers of Darukaal in the upcoming hunts for oxen and for caribou. Or at least, that's what she told herself. The spirits may forgive her for indulging the warmongers, and Satori prayed they'd look upon her people in good humour when the hunt of a more...wolfish kind began.

Her voice invited those near to join her circle as she proceeded to call upon the Lord of the Wilds in a lilting melody.

"Buwes canti me, Cernunne, mā swimasū aresistasūrwe, mā buwū trebei pelleiwe, mā wextasū sounasūwe. Buwes nerton imon etic attios imos, toberās wissu togusū sentous wīrī etic wirālian cammanī esio exsobnācū."

Satori repeats it twice, once in the tongue of old forests, and once for the common ears. And, when the song comes to a close, she moves about those present, a sprig of sage clutched between her teeth as she blesses them one by one.

The Wraith arrives as the wind does; silent, but certain. Drawn not by piety, nor some burning need to be seen, but by the quiet pull of belonging. Of duty; of curiosity, perhaps. When the woman’s voice rises across the tundra in song, lilting and strange in its forest-born cadence, it finds him already watching from the slope above, a pale silhouette poised beneath the cut of spring sky.
Astier descends with deliberate steps, picking his way across the uneven ground where snow gives way to stone, then softens again to trampled bloom.  He takes his place at the edge of the ring, neither hiding nor seeking attention. The Wraith is as composed here as he is in battle; his stillness not stiff, but aware, respectful. Though the rites are unfamiliar, he does not scoff at their meaning. He listens, watches, learns.
When the priestess approaches with the sage, he does not flinch. He bows his head only the smallest measure, accepting her blessing without resistance. The smell clings faintly to his fur, earthy and bitter, and he breathes it in without question. Astier is no zealot. Faith is not what guides his path. But he is a soldier of the mountain now, sworn and marked. And he will wear the blessing as he wears his scars; with quiet, enduring purpose.

turning this into a normal thread bc i want to write with u hehe
others are free to reference this thread <3

"Astier is it?"

Once the ceremony came to a close, the Priestess hurried to greet the man of silver before he disappeared into the glacial wilderness again. He bore a figure similar to that of many of Darukaal's warriors, though Satori was curious to note his face was chiselled almost elegantly so, as if the ice itself had breathed life.

"You looked rather stoic back there. I'm Satori - a pleasure to meet you." She wondered what drew him to join her, and gave her pelt a quick shake to rid it of any stray leaves.

<3

Astier had begun to turn away, snow crunching beneath his paws, when the voice reached him; clear, smooth, laced with that curious lilt only those familiar with the wilds carried. He paused, gaze flicking back over his shoulder. The glint of his eye caught the fading light like ice catching sun. „It is,” he began, voice low, measured. A beat passed; enough for the silence to settle into something heavy, but not unfriendly.
His stance remained still, yet not rigid. The tension in him was of restraint, not discomfort. His eyes swept over her, observing, not scrutinizing, and lingered just briefly where petals and leaves still clung stubbornly to her fur. „You spoke with conviction,” he added after a breath, even if the words passed by his ears, „I thought it worth listening to.” It wasn’t quite praise, but neither was it cold dismissal. His gaze shifted toward the ring where the ceremony had taken place, the faintest trace of earth still pressed into the snow.
„I’m not devout,” he admitted then, simply. „But I don’t turn away what might guard a pack I serve.” A faint nod followed: „The pleasure is mine.” Brief, polite, but not distant. There was something watchful in his tone; a man who hadn’t yet decided if this conversation was a detour or a beginning.