Introduction

A beach somewhere in Furud...

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Had she slumbered while awake, that she should recall nothing of how she had come to be here? These lands were unknown to her, yet she felt no unease—this was her new hunting ground.

Below, she glimpsed what seemed to be the lupine form of a fellow hunter emerging from the landscape. The red-haired woman drew a deep breath, willing her voice to carry, to pierce through the wind’s restless howls rather than be lost within them.

“You down there! I am Bison! What do they call you?” A name was a mark of one's prowess, a measure of one's deeds. Thus, she would weigh the hunter who stood below—was they a seasoned tracker or merely a fledgling? As for her, she bore her title with pride: Bison.
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Though her grip on the world felt tenuous at best lately, the lure of game trails brought her down from Morðfjall's slopes anyway. So long as she could keep the peak somewhere in her sight, she trusted it would be fine. The mountain should not fade away from her... so the ghost tracked on, nose low, and ears tucked tight against the winds.

Behind her, the ravens' calls grew fainter. She prickled accordingly, but breathed deep the seasalt. It sparked a comforting nostalgia. With it, she found the groove of a trail heading further along the beaches.

Perhaps overly withdrawn, or preoccupied mapping the newness beneath her paws, the voice that rung out from above shook her out of it with a force she had not prepared for. She stopped immediately, eyes pinning towards the source.

Irura did not recognize the wolf. They wore bold reds, and curious markings. Unique--certainly, not like most of Stjörnuáti's clansmen. The wind did not lean in her favor to say more than that. “Anun — Stranger,” she greets first, and perhaps it's an answer. It serves well enough for her purposes. “Who is it that asks?” she asked in a voice that would hopefully carry back.
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That cursed wind made conversation somewhat arduous, and Bison was not entirely certain she had understood. With an expressive pout, she furrowed every muscle in her face, sculpting a theatrical mask of bewilderment.

Resolute, without a moment’s hesitation, she set her paws upon the slope and let herself glide downward, closing the distance between her and her pristine-coated interlocutor.

Who is it that asks?
The red huntress would blame the wind, sparing herself the formality of repeating her name. Had it not left an impression the first time? Was a bison so insignificant, so easily dismissed in these lands? Perhaps the Anun was thirty times her size and strength—that must be why the intriguing huntress made her repeat it, just to remind her of it.

“They call me Bison!” she declared, her voice ringing with pride, her chest swelling as if to bear the weight of the name she so loved to wear, to claim, to unveil. She, who had felled the giant of the plains! But this was not merely her tale to tell—the stranger, too, carried stories within her.

“An—what? Anun? What is that? Never heard of it! How large? How fierce? What are its weapons?” The questions tumbled forth, relentless, as she claimed the space, the moment, the conversation itself. Had she finally set foot in a land of legendary prey?

She circled the other huntress with keen scrutiny. No taller than herself, yet far more slender—a body shaped for speed, for the chase rather than the clash of raw strength. A curious frame for a hunter… And yet, her skin bore the scars of battle, the carved memories of hunts that must have been nothing short of extraordinary. Bison’s heart quickened—there was much to learn here, and she was eager to drink in every tale.
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The ijiraq squinted her eyes, ears shifting--trying, against the winds. But, it told her much more to just watch. She followed the stranger's surprising approach with interest, and now also in this shortening proximity, she minded her own guard. She didn't expect this, but the lasting curiosity remained, sparked: who was this that she had found out here beyond the mountain?

Slowly, more started to click and she hoped her expression did not reveal more than she intended. Bison was not the what, here. More than that. It was the who, Irura finally caught on the much-needed repeat. In her own northern histories, even bison the prey item were almost a myth--not at all among her typical vernacular, or huntings, even. Great, powerful beasts, though. “My mistake,” she replied, lightly enough--perhaps to be lost to the coastal winds. Her ears had grown used to the different northern tongues of Hrafnsvaktin, though she could not always decipher all of them, they were more of what she was accustomed to hearing lately. She would re-orient herself better.

“Anun is only a stranger, a drifter. Not as armed as it may seem,” she mentioned with a hint of humor on her chuff. No excessive weaponry, and not large at all. She was a touch more modest, though aware of her own types of strength. Much less seen. “To some, I am also known as Ijiraq..” Although it was nothing so fantastic. A shapeshifter, at best. She preferred to be underestimated, if anything, and in her moons, had carried the weight of many names. None attached to her so well as these, however.

As she was circled, she felt her hackles want to stiffen. She bit back the nerves before their energy took shape. “Are you a hunter of these coasts then?” she asked back on a long look. The confidence, the unmistakable presence, it certainly made her wonder what brought Bison here if these were not the usual stomping grounds.
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