i came in the ring like a dog on a chain

High upon Hrafnsvaktin, he lurked.

The wind whipped against his thick scruff, daring to tangle the mess of fur along his shoulders as he moved against it. The chill up here was hospitable to him, the climate one that he had endured even on the worst of days thus far. It was peaceful up there despite being devoid of forestry—there was nothing along these higher reaches than open shale and mixed stones, evidence here that at one point or another even the the earth itself had given way to smother all beneath it.

At the height of summer, such stones were exposed and beneath the early morning light some glimmered as he passed them by. Far from gemstones or anything of significance, though they were some of the stones that the ravens would pick up and share. Today the wind was ill-favored for them, though distantly he heard their calls from below, their little cacophony of chatter that he hardly understood but knew enough to know they were not raising an alarm.

The suneater came to a natural stopping point after some time, a cliff that jutted out over the fog bank of the forest below, where dawn’s light did not quite reach for the shadow of the crag. His gaze scanned over what he could see—treetops, lower juts of stone—before reclining to his haunches and letting his gaze take notice of the few clouds that blotted the pastel sky. With no telling what the day would bring, he pondered seeking out @Stjörnuáti for ideas… but the day was still young, and there was still time for solitude left on his plate.

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Gilded creams and livered eyes separated the man from the shadows of the forest, paws carrying him across the terrain as he followed a scent he knew as well as his own. Often, the stareater sought his darker brother’s company, and today was no different. Up the slopes, Solpallur’s path had wound, and so, Stjornuati’s did as well, noting both the familiar and not so familiar paths and landmarks along the way.

Eventually, the trees became sparse, the jut of stone above exactly where he expected his soul-brother to be. Here, where the air was thin and the sky was close, the call was loud, sonorous in his heart. It was the same for the man he approached, he knew, a rough knock of his head against the dark shoulder the silent greeting they oft shared. Dark eyes followed those of jade, out across the land that sprawled before them.

In his heart, his soul, the low melody of their destiny continued to sing.

“Hrafnsvaktin,” Stjornuati finally said, glancing at his brother to seek his thoughts, finding no further explanation climbing his vocals. Solpallur would understand well enough.

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At last, their paths intersected; this locale was but one of many rendezvous points they often rallied at whether in song or silence. He greeted his brother very much in the same way he was met, a low growl of affection leaving him as their bodies knocked and meshed together in a swap of one untold story or another.

Then, silence. One that did not have to last long but went on just enough before Stjornuati’s voice breached the ambience around them—a single word, but one with gravity. Solpallur rumbled to this in response with appraisal, slower perhaps to attach a reasoning to it but well aware all the same in his own way.

“Hrafnsvaktin?” he questioned as they surveyed. “Það hentar þessum stað. — It suits this place.”

The ravens had long stood as sentinels before they had come, their cries now at times a first line of defense to intruders if they were willing to listen. It was not the only thing that they were good for, of course, but it was only one of many purposes that the wolves there knew them for.

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“Það hentar okkur. — It suits us.” A minor correction, he felt, but important nonetheless. Their relationship with the corvids was symbiotic, beneficial to both sides. As the ravens formed a line of defense, so too did the wolves, and Stjörnuáti was pleased to be able to live in harmony with them. It was a touch surprising that so few in these lands made similar friendships but it was not something he would argue with, more than willing to let others live as they pleased while the wolves of Hrafnsvaktin did the same.

“Vesturbjargið. Hefur þú séð það? — The western cliff. Have you seen it?” Dark nose pointed in the direction of the sheer drop, long and cruel. “Ég hef fundið beinagrindur við fætur hennar. Úlfar. Kettir. Alls konar verur. — I've found skeletons at its feet. Wolves. Cats. All manner of creatures.” The wolves of Raven's Watch would do well to be wary when they picked their way up the slopes, though Stjörnuáti was one that enjoyed the thrill, the danger. He had often found himself at the edge, staring down into its long abyss.

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switching to colorful text over hover because fuck that translator today smh

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“I have visited,” he rejoined with a rumble, thinking of it. All along those ridges, ledges, and down into the depths of the forestry beneath it were the bones. He knew not all of them had come there naturally—the ravens had made it their dumping grounds among other creatures—but he had dug in along the crevasses and brush at the forest floor to gather what he wanted.

“I feel it is the mountain’s natural place for great blots of old.” It was the only thing that made sense to him, for why else would there be so many bones littered about the open face of the mountain? He did not believe that all creatures were that foolish, though granted many of the bones seemed far more weathered and older than he and his brother combined.

Settling back onto his haunches, Solpallur once more cast his gaze out over their domain. The tundra seemed to go on endlessly even from there, though he knew it was not the case. Distantly, to their south and just beyond the limits of his capable sight lied the mountains and all the lush greenery and temptations therein. A good day’s travel, if not more, and there was no telling to what end that vastness went.

“Midsummer has approached us, brother. The days shorten soon… our work will begin as it should, and I feel will we have success come to us through our labors.” He had seen it in the bones, in the night sky over the cairns he had built when the urge had struck him. “The lands to our south may be good for hunting,” he went on with a chuckle, “and I wished for us many wives to make our hearth whole.”

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following suit because i am lazehhhhhh

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Surprise was absent from his gilded countenance. Solpallur was not just his kin but his sálubróðir, their bond twisting and twining to run deeper than blood and wombwater ever could. The pair had long shadowed one another, even when they were not in each other's direct vicinity, so to know that Solpallur had already visited the makeshift graveyard was comforting, in a way.

An agreeable sound left him at his darker half's observation, nose still pointed in the direction of the cliff. There was quiet contemplation in his ruddy gaze, a gentle frown pulling at those pebbled lips. “This mountain has seen much.” It had told him that much, and he felt that it would continue to reveal its secrets to him.

A sudden bark of laughter left him as a name came to him then, as if the mountain's wind had whispered the suggestion in his ear. “Morðfjall,” He announced, looking to meet that jade green gaze with amusement coloring his own, something that continued as his brother spoke. 

“The call sings here. It is loud and vibrant. Not like before.” His tail swished, pleased with their find of this mountain, of the raven's here and of the wolves that had begun to gather here with them. “You can have your wives. Women are much work, brother. Younglings more so. If that is what you desire, I shall support you but you are the one they will chew upon.” Grinning at him, Stjörnuáti did not reveal if he meant the wives or the children.

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shite phone post gooo

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Morðfjall.

His lips turned up in a tight, thin smile. How fitting, it seemed to suggest. The bones, the ravens, their very existence there made it a fitting name to bestow. But it was overshadowed by his brother's next comment and a raspy laugh left Solpallur instead.

"Life is work, brother," he said, "but it is here I believe we can forge a legacy even our ancestors will be proud of." There was little room for doubt in his mind; it was true to him as well that the hringja was more than a distant calling. It rang loud, like a summoning howl to all that would listen, heed, and answer. For Solpallur, the path seemed clearer than ever ahead of them.

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