why are they sometimes judged as if they're equal?

He bundled up as tightly as he could at night. The man he had met had left him a place where he was out of the biting winds, but nothing more. Never more-so strictly did he wind himself in a ball, desperately trying to hold onto whatever heat he could produce. They were hard nights, frozen and lonely.

The lonely part, while present, never bothered him much. It was how he slept back in The Eye- alone. He didn't want the warmth of his siblings to give him any sense of hope or longing. For if ever they weren't there, he wished not to yearn for them. Even when the desert's nights were cold- though far behind this mountain's freeze.
It was as if the sun did not visit this place nor give it any face. Only in the earliest times of day would she wake, basking her long fingers over the land where only their tips would reach him.

The boy would rise during this time, when it was finally beginning to be slightly warmer than the night. He would step out of the makeshift shelter and sit where the sun would shine on him. The sun did look upon him so fondly, even from her distance. His normally grey-brown pelt caught the eager light and spun it gold, while the lighter and almost-white aspects of his fur became like unlit torches that lit into stars under her gaze.

He would look down at the snow with pale eyes and see how it would sparkle. Untouched, clean slate, softly melting and crystalizing on the surface. No vultures would pester his view, nor mice sniff at his paws. The peaceful tranquility of this place made it understandable why some people attempt to stay here- despite the uncomfortable nights.

Speaking of uncomfortable nights...

The boy, looking around from where he sat, wondered if he would have to go seek that man out himself or if he would come to him on his own. 

@Stjörnuáti

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He was mindful of the boy he'd taken in, watching from afar to see how he held up. He had been weak when the man had taken him in, weak enough that Stjörnuáti wasn't truly sure if he'd survive here upon the mountain. So he'd waited. Waited to see if the mountain claimed him, waited to see if he would gather his strength, to even just survive.

The stareater was pleased his instincts had not been wrong.

Today, under the bright rays of the morning sun, the gilded Jarl carried with him a gift: a bull elk hide slung across his back in a haphazard fashion. Every so often, he would pause, swinging his head around to reposition it when it slid from his fur. The warmth it provided was great, perfect for a young and growing boy.

“Einn,” He would call once he spotted the slim boy. “Koma.” His head tossed in a direction away from the boy's den, intending to lead him further up the mountain. “Come.”

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