a little higher

there's nothing better than the freedom of flight.

wind flows beneath his wings, buoying him up higher, higher - 'til he's sure he can touch the clouds. sýnin looses a croaking laugh, exhilarated. he throws his body to the side, wings tucking close as he performs a barrel roll, and pulls out of the maneuver with a shrill screech.

in moments like this, he's so glad that he was born a bird; the wingless don't know what they're missing.

as he flies, banking downward and closer to the mountain's peaks, he spots a familiar golden pelt. with yet another joyous laugh, he swerves, aiming for the wolf below. bleached white talons reach out, each toe spread and ready to latch onto the jarl's frame as he descends. should the stareater allow, the white raven would land gracefully upon his shoulder, finding precious balance with a flap of ivory wings.

"félagi, félagi," — friend he'd chant, voice high and rasping. turning his head, sýnin would preen at @Stjörnuáti fur, threading cream fur between the clasp of his beak. "doing what?"

---

note here

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The talons that gripped at his fur were familiar, welcomed. There was never really a time that Stjörnuáti didn't want his feathered companion around, happy to have him tag along whether by riding atop the man's shoulder or by wing. The two had spent much time together over the years, and he was ever-thankful for it, even if those exact words did not cross his mind.

Today was no different, his head turning slightly to peer at Sýnin out of the corner of his eye before motioning with his nose back out at the lands sprawled out beneath the mountain's peak. It was on the shorn off cliffside that the jarl stood upon, watching the world below. “Sjáðu þetta allt saman. Heimurinn er aftur öðruvísi. — Look at it all. The world is different again.” Sýnin had been around long enough now that he knew the language, so Stjörnuáti did not hesitate in the usage of his natal tongue.

“Guðirnir eru að leik, ekki satt? — The gods are at play again, no?”

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click dialogue for translation!

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the raven's head cocked to the side, cerulean irises following the point of his comrade's muzzle. they'd called this land home for some time now, long enough that sýnin could've confidently said that he knew the terrain as he knew the placement of each feather that graced his form. but indeed, things had changed - and where once familiar landmarks stood were now strange and unknown.

perhaps all the better, a challenge set forth; a game, meant to strengthen their minds and their bonds with the earth.

"loki doing," he'd muse aloud, clacking his beak a few times. the sound was sharp in the silence of winter, echoing off of the snowdrifts and falling down the slope of the cliff. the urge to descend, to fly parallel to the cliff face and bounce resounding calls off of its surface, overwhelmed him for a moment. like the god whose name he had intoned, mischief was the corvid way; and none were so faithful to the path as sýnin.

"þeir spila, — they play," would come the eventual reply, his words reflecting the jarl's own. then, more originally, "guðaleikir sem okkur eru óþekktir, — divine games unknown to us," he'd start, speaking mother-tongue, then stop, searching his mind for the proper phrasing.

finally, he'd finish, "við þjáumst af skemmtun þeirra, já? — we suffer their fun, yes?"

with a flutter of feathers, he'd settle backward on stjörnuáti's shoulderblade, contemplating - as much as a creature like himself could contemplate. he felt some kinship with the god loki, blessed in mischief and cunning both. were this truly a game of the gods, surely it was the trickster's doing; and as he had said, they, as mortals, were left to suffer as the divine entertained themselves.

ducking his head to the side, sýnin would groom at his own ivory feathers. ravens such as he had no vested interest in the business of gods - no, what appealed to a corvid was the shiny, the precious. like a dragon of myth, they created a hoard that held the highest of their esteem, guarding this hoard by the sake of their life.

the white raven had had, once upon a time, a hoard rivaling any others. over the years, things had been lost to time - and now, he considers the sveit — group/company to be an amalgamation of his greatest treasures. the jarl remained, as ever, the first and foremost of these.

there was little that a raven could be considered fond of - and yet here sýnin was, a valdr — wolf held in such high regard in his little avian heart. if only stjörnuáti knew the extent to which he was beloved - surely the words would never be spoken, yet the sentiment felt all the same.

with a final shake of his feathers, sýnin turned once more to the stareater.

"food?" he inquired hopefully in common tongue, neck straining as he peered over and into the closest liver eye.

---

 

hope this is ok! getting more into the swing of writing him hehe. if anything needs changing, lmk!

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Loki. A low, thoughtful rumble of acknowledgment came from him, dark eyes looking across the changed landscapes. It did not worry him so much as catch him off guard; though how he was still surprised every time something odd happened in this land, he did not know. It was the gods' personal playground, after all.

A short breath of a laugh escaped him, a grin taking his maw. “Þjáist? Eða njóta? — Suffer? Or enjoy?” The stareater was not afraid of change, had never been and would never be. It was not in his nature to be afraid of the unknown or the unexpected.

How much time he spent contemplating the world and its shifting nature, he did not know. He supposed, in a way, that it was not in the world's nature, to be expected or known. If the past several years had taught him anything, it was that anything could happen.

"Food?"

An ear flicked in acknowledgement, another positive rumble coming from him. A second more, he lingered, before he turned and carried himself and his friend down his chosen path of the mountain. “Hvað finnst þér gott að borða? — What do you feel like eating?”

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There was sound before there was any sign of what made it. A vague echo of a wolf's cry rounded the mountains and was parried by its many hilltops, vibrating glacier, lake, and forest. At first, the cry seemed as if a ghost had come beyond the corner to meet the strange raven and his beastly counterpart.

That didn't last long.

Louder and louder the sound grew. Whinier it became. Until finally it was obvious that this was no ghost.
Nope. Just a loud ass girl with her loud ass airhorn voice.

If anyone bothered to look up, they would see a meagre red dot blotting out the light. Of course there were only about two seconds on seeing that dot before Valmúa crashed down onto them.

The blow might have killed everyone, only the gods were feeling gracious that day. The young sister (why was she young?) struck her brother's ass and landed in fresh powder. It still hurt like a bitch, and prompted an immediate screech from her that should have started an avalanche. “Hvað í fokk?! Foookkk! — What the fuck?! Fuuuuuck!!!”

Maybe it was clever irony that she fell out of the sky again onto her brother. Maybe it was meant to kill them both before they could get started. Maybe it's Maybelline.

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enjoy, he says, though sýnin is sure that opinion could change once the time to navigate the new world came. he, for one, did not look forward to memorizing the new landmarks.

although, he supposed that he could simply stick to the jarl, as he often did, and then he wouldn't have to re-learn once-familiar routes - leave it to the wolves, hm? they had far superior noses. though... they were also far slower, burdened as they were with a landlocked life.

a conundrum he would not further ponder, as he had other, more important things to focus on. food, for one.

a raven's stomach does not rumble as a wolf's might, but still, the hunger pangs take him by the gizzard. as stjörnuáti moved, shoulders shifting beneath sýnin's gripping talons, the raven adjusts his hold, giving an indignant grumble and fluttering his wings as they turn.

and then - he hears her before he sees her, a sound unlike any other; loud, piercing, certainly enough to bring the mountain down on their heads. startled, sýnin doesn't linger to see what it could be. with a terrible squawk, he takes off, the slight muscles of his shoulders tensing and releasing as he flaps snow-white wings. rising higher, higher, he circles around, one blue eye scanning the ground - and the wolf he'd left behind - below.

only to see a familiar reddened pelt. epiphany strikes, then exasperation - the sister, it would appear, is here.

with an annoyed clack of his beak, sýnin turns, then dives, bleached talons reaching once more for the crook of stjörnuáti's shoulder. clasping cream fur between his toes, he resettles himself, turning a sharp, blue-eyed glare towards valmúa.

"loud," he'd state simply, his ire obvious in the tone of his croaking voice. unwilling to deal with her, he'd duck his head, raising one feather to preen at the delicate covert feathers beneath.

---

birb not happy birb

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Sometimes, Stjörnuáti was convinced that the gods laughed at him. That they found great amusement in the irony that often surrounded him. Here, only moments prior, he'd been contemplating their endeavors and why they shifted things about. And in the next moment?

He barely had time to register it all.

His ears flickered backwards at the scream, vaguely registering the fact that Sýnin had taken flight before he crashed to the ground with a snarling curse. Body hurting, he still pushed himself into action, rolling over and pinning --

“Þú tík. — You bitch.”

Jaws closed the distance to grapple at her muzzle and shake it lightly. “Af hverju er ég ekki hissa? Var einhver þarna uppi að henda þér út á rassinn? — Why am I not surprised? Did someone up there throw you out on your ass?”

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Stjörnuáti had always been an asshole of a brother. Slow to learn. Slow to know. Slow to anything. The poppy girl was the one who picked up other languages faster, who found it easier to be with others, to see them, to know what they wanted.

She was on her side, rolled over after landing. Her side hurt, but not much worse than when they had sparred together and she'd ended up slammed against walls or vice versa.

As she rose, hearing his snark, she snapped, “Aðeins þegar þeir sáu heimsku þína — Only when they saw your stupidity.” Despite her pain, she hid it well. An early-trained skill from their homeland.

She looked at his shoulder and saw the bird. The sister had never liked birds. She'd never had a bird like her. “Af hverju er það hvítt? — Why is it white?”

The red girl shook herself after standing as though she had been plunged into water. Her side had a long, dark bruise under the skin that would surface within the next few days. Yet with her upbringing, it was no more than a small scrape.

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sýnin doesn't pay much attention to their conversation, too busy preening feathers one by one. he runs his beak carefully over the vanes of a median covert, squawking a light protest as his perch moves beneath his feet. said perch shakes lightly as stjörnuáti grasps his sister's muzzle, and the raven grumbles his displeasure.

with a final perusal of his underwing, he turns his attention back to the matters at hand. food is his main priority - but as valmúa's green gaze settles upon ivory plumage, he finds his concerns shifting.

an angry sound erupts from his syrinx, loud and sharp. he clacks his beak in a jittering cacophony, eyeing her right back with an azure glare. his feathers 'poof' up aggressively - though the intimidation tactic looks more ridiculous on his small frame than threatening. if only he were the size of a wolf - big enough to put some bite where his bark is.

"nelepyye volki, — ridiculous wolves," he'd mutter in a language unknown to the two siblings, some grating, guttural noise following the words. with another harsh clatter of his beak, he'd purposefully turn his back on the reddened beast, clasping a strand of stjörnuáti's ruff in his bill and bobbing his head side to side, swinging the fur all the while - and quite possibly pulling annoyingly at the jarl's skin.

food was what he needed - and quickly, before he pulled out some real corvid tricks and became even more obnoxious. with a frustrated huff, he drops the cream tuft of fur, craning his head to look again in one of the stareater's eyes.

"matur! — food!" he'd half-shriek, voice raised and speaking mother-tongue in case either of these wolves had decided to go deaf in the past few minutes. one bleached foot would rise then stamp down upon his shoulder-perch, his irritation evident.

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bad sucky post :((

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