comes the grey veil down on our heads

for @"Aeri"

---

He drifted towards the south again, this time towards mountains that had dotted the horizon distantly. He had gone this way a time or two before, but had not ventured far outside of his usual tundra-bound range. The air was warmer here, perhaps more gentle as life seemed to rush and grow in these parts more than it ever would to its northern brethren. It was in these parts where he had once come to gather berries and fruits for the midsummer, though it had little to do with why he found himself there again.

Of course, the thought to partake in what it had to offer late in the season did appeal to him; the suneater did enjoy the fruits he could find as much as he did the berries, for all things were sustenance, and nourishment was wholly a good thing. It did well to heal an aching body and mind, of which he currently ailed from both.

He hadn’t forgotten about the stranger who had happened upon him.

Venturing to the depths of the hollow still adored in its summer fashion, he let his nose guide him. He crossed over a narrow brook without wetting his feet by way of stones, and worked his way into a grove where he the scent of late berries drew him in. A grumble worked its way out of his chest as he slipped narrowly between brambles with relative ease that betrayed his size; yellowing teeth plucked a tender if not slightly sour berry loose from long gone flowers, and it was swallowed whole.

It was satisfying.

---

+1 Discovery Points

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[narrow width=800]aėrith is not, for a rare time, lost. and free.

she chases rapture, flushed, wish-made bright and wringing loose the knots of her haunting. that which mumrurs of old souls beneath her skin, ever thereunder; wends around her with their laments and draws touches of longing down the marble column of her throat. pleads for release and gathers her against the weight of itself, folds her spirit over. making her them; making them her. spindling the caught, delicate things of her boreal soul with hungry hands that rasp and reach for her for more, more. wants more bruising, more tendering of her skin; more cuts, more scrapes, more of what had made her soul sing tundrian as she proved what worth she had left.

all that she had sought and taken and earned in her heart's own blood;
but the nightingale is as faraway, now, as she is focused; head full of florid thoughts even though her step was more surer than it had ever been before.  ( or, had she always been so certain of the path she's ever carved out on her own? )  she has been set alight ever since her time with northfall; reawakened into some old, festal reckoning.

she's near said grove when the thought casts itself through her mind, humming out a low, purling sound of sureness to herself from between lungs and throat: it was only time before her numbers swelled within this vale. time enough to lay their foundations into the roots of these silvered mountains as before. and then there would be the flourishing, and there would be no contentment til they knew this world as much as they'd known the last of theirs  —  wherever it'd been for each of them.

it is a good feeling.

once forgotten but now known again;
and it only grows within her as the noise of another draws her ear; the heavy-dark strength of his thigh and the breadth of his person tempting her eye and she looks with unblushing admiration. less so surprised, for now, with an unfamiliar in her lands and more with the untold stories weighed in the drag of his shoulders; how he stands, gleaming in the phantom spoils of everything that had worn him into who he was now: here, plucking at goldberries.

she smiles to herself, impish lips absently quirked;
claws curling into the dewy green underpaw.

an inquisitive note gives voice to her presence, if he hadn't yet noticed her otherwise.[/narrow]

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Moments pass, light and airy as he cleared his mind of all thought. It was almost a meditative state in the way that he gently moved among the brambles and their spoils, though it is not without some graceless steps. Had he been any other color, say like his brother, his feet would have soon and surely been stained as he made his way.

It is not long either before he senses a presence among his own. He hears it first from the birds in the leafy eaves above; it is in the way their song changes, the way the fluttering of wings as they leave ground for safety on high that first draws his attention. It pulled him from whatever earthly trance he was in to slowly spy her between the shrubs and grasses, winding from behind the timber as his teeth pluck another slightly sour berry off its host.

It comes in time with the gentle lilt of her voice to draw him.

But Solpallur did nothing more than consume his prize, his steps halting as he towers over the berry patch of which he is in the middle of. The shrubs here younger than he, not quite grown into their full height to conceal him though he wouldn’t have tried either. In the edge of his vision he could see another ripe berry, but dares not to reach for it—he would not take his gaze from the ghastly apparition before him.

She isn’t an unsightly thing, however wispy she may have been.

“Verst að ávöxturinn eyðileggur feldinn þinn, andi, — Too bad the berries will ruin your coat, spirit,” he rumbled at her.

---

+1 Discovery Points

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[narrow width=800]she, as he does, moves by way of mist, through clusters of light-hewn poppies, mallow, and beardtongue; not by these stranger stars that she's tried to acquaint herself with to use as guide but rest now behind the veils of cloud and sun anyway. not yet would she look up into the hateful black above  —  not when she's found him here, right before her. finds him, darkness invaded, invited, without meaning to. has made himself into a much more earthly thing than to what the starcatcher is accustomed.

and though she doesn't quite understand this tundrian tongue of his, it is enough like that of the stormborn's that she recognizes those gruff, thundersoft sounds. it's enough, too, that she tries, with a tentative bite of her lip:  "norrænn maður?" — norseman?

pauses, before giving an apologetic shake of her lumine head;
aside from his half-familiar noises, it is all she knows.

it certainly didn't deter her, though, when she edges her way toward the briars nearest to her with featherlight side-steps. "näiden marjojen on oltava kauden viimeisiä,"  — these berries must be the last of the season, looking at him as plainly as he looked at her, and neverminding it all her while. he was welcome to it. it was only when she bit into the summer-warm tartness of one, of two, that indeed its dark juice dribbled down the fair chin, the crescent jaw  —  staining, as she had known and yet crinkled her bud nose at in muted disbelief.

but she was smiling, too, with quiet laughter perched on that curl of lips; argent eyes twinkling over to his in some admission that she wasn't opposed to being seen this way. painted with errant, stumbling brushstrokes of purple; shaking her head at her self and her own insatiable instances, and the consequences wrought from it all.

the undómiel reaches for another, though;
and does not look away.[/narrow]

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There was a certain innocence to her that intrigued him, though he could not help but perceive it as naivety at its finest. It is with some disbelief that he cannot imagine her as being entirely real, for a wolf was not keen on acting in the feathery way that she did. It was in the way she plucked the berries from the bush, her eyes alight in a playful glimmer that he does not quite know; his presence in the garden does not seem to bother her or her ethereal nature.

It was a thing most curious indeed.

One word in the mix of all and little she says lingered in the air between them—it was the thing that gave him the most pause of all, though he understood that it may have been the only thing of his archaic tongue she knows. Her own language seems just as old and yet weightless as she.

“Já, en margt líka. — Yes, but many things too.”

The statement is ground out like chaff from wheat; his voice was ever one that was rough, like the stones on the mountain from whence he had come. So rough that it may have been difficult to know whether there were affirmations in his tone or some sort of indication that she were wrong, but the pointed look of his emerald gaze would further the point.

Tentatively, he decided to go nearer to her.

“Andi, hvað heitir þú? — Spirit, what is your name?”
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[narrow width=800]andi? she had once been an 'andy,' once upon a time;
but all she knows of herself at this moment is that her wildling heart beats in wildling ways, fluttering about in the catch of her throat. he comes nearer and she tilts her silver brow, nostrils flaring as she scents the musky, male, soil-and-pine redolence of him.  "haluatko vain marjoja, yöni?"  — are berries all you want, my nightshade?with that fey mouth furling in some shying, shrouded mirth she shivers away from him; dancing just beyond his reaches, tugging at her lip.  "onko se kaikki mitä haluat maistaa?"  — is that all you'd like to taste?of this world, and the one she sought to rebuild here? rebuild, as this place decided when to reveal itself to her.

if he could not sense it, then she would show him.

she dove, and with a furling squeal of splintering wood that she rented nearest berry-bough from its bush and, fixing it more surely between pearl fangs, she surged away from his garden, out, out; already gone, having given herself over to the mists and  ( lest he gain after her now )  with nothing other than her wildweald scent, limned in all of her beckoning for him to come and find her. follow her.

that, and the laughter that fell like so many giving, aching things from star-dismantling lips.[/narrow]

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She danced for him, at least in a sense, that playful demeanor pouring out of her in an aura that could have almost been seen in the way it shimmered. She may not have truly been a spirit, but hers was a lively one. It played out like a memory that he could not quite grasp, assuming he had ever had a memory like that. Maybe one he had found in a wolf once or twice before and always those of feminine wiles.

His head turned with question as she snatched a loose branch from the bramble and pulled it free; dewdrops rained down to the soft earth with loose berries to follow as she stole away through the lingering mists. Solpallur could only watch her go at first, trying to piece together her intention when at least he felt pulled by her. If this was her game that she wished to play, then he would see how far she was willing to take it.

In her wake, he found no cloying scent on the wind to suggest she desired something otherwise, but it meant little to him. He was a hedonistic creature and it was the midsummer, the last celebrations of a warmth that would give way to the many harvests and soon the long dark to shove them firmly into winter. It was a time for gathering his own resources, to partake and in his own way thank and praise the hringja for drawing them where it had.

He suspected this was one of those things, a sign.

And just like that, the spirit slipped from his view as though she had become one with the mist that thickened through a narrow passage in the timber. It does not stop the suneater from his pursuit, and like a dark shade he barrelled along with increasing pace to close off that distance between them. Another twist in her trail and all he saw was the glimpse of her tail as it disappeared once again.

“Andi, — Spirit,” he called ahead, “ef þetta er gildra, veistu að ég mun finna þig. — if this is a trap, know that I will find you.”

---

+1 Discovery Points

the staff team luvs u

[narrow width=800]only ever because she wishes to be found;
and when he does find her, after her flight through her mists and his pursuance of her, it's at the scene of a miniature henge of standing stones, placed on a little, rumpled rise before high-tiered falls. thrust up from the bowels of stone and foxtail grasses as if making to clutch and claw their way into the vault of all heavens. her prayers had since been sent up, with the needed branch placed in the very middle, alongside what other bits of nature and oddities alike she'd managed to scrounge up.

now, she's pressing her lips and brow against the cool dark humming stone, merely gazing at her offer; the spring of her ribs a little labored from her lead.  "haluan nähdä onko se totta. haluan tietää, että hänen jumalansa ovat täällä kanssani,"  — i want to see if it is real. i want to know that his gods are here with me,looking over to the nightshade, her earlier frenzy now gentled with the sad, sweet solemnity of a wife removed from worlds away; for though she detests them, they are all she has. and they have made a believer out of even her. ...but then, remembering that he is as material as she, the duskwild turns away with a simper and moves behind the crude monolith.

her pearlmade eyes have shuttered closed, leant against the formation when he finds her, for found she wishes to be.  "minun täytyy tietää, että he toivat minut tänne,"  — i have to know that it was they who brought me here,soul-thin, lilting voice a murmur, "että viimeinen toiveeni ei ollut vain se: toive." — that my final wish was not just that: a wish.

and then, with their leave, and with evune's eye, she would search for her children.

at the moment, she was trembling for a touch he hadn't even graced her with; her gaze veiled with an errant film of tears as she lifts her chin, bares the downy vulnerability of her throat.

waits for whichever fatestrung answer comes first.[/narrow]

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She leads him on at length and one after the other, he arrives at the henge not long after she steals away yet again, her voice nothing more than a whisper over the sound of blood rushing in his ears and the ambience of the place itself. It does not take him long to see what she had done, what she had crudely constructed from what the world gave freely, kindly; it is an altar, not unlike the cairns he feels compelled to construct across the whole of Hrafnsvaktin.

He paused there, studying it rather than immediately going to seek her out.

It wasn’t at all dissimilar to the things he expected to find; they are not inherently capable of building elaborate things, but the offerings were roughly the same. The reverence they could possess for the world around them relatively the same. He growled at it, not out of confusion nor displeasure, but something of a rumbling approval. An intriguing sort of approval, one that he was forced to pass by at last to track and trail her from where the monoliths had her tucked away.

This time, he chose to invade her space; enticed, entranced.

“Ertu þá eins og ég? — Are you like me?” he lowly asked to the softness of her cheek. Her own musk just as he thought it would be; light and airy, of the very earth she walked upon. He does not phase through her like she is a ghost—she is real.

“Ég velti fyrir mér til hvaða guða þú biður, — I wonder what gods you pray to,” he went on, investigating her with touches that were more gentle than an ugly thing such as he should have been capable of. He knows the feeling low in the pit of his belly and how it burns; it is a longing expressed in an almost inappropriate time and place.

He can think of no other reason why she would take him there than to finish a ritual.

Why she would show him what she had shown.

With jaws parting, he dared to reach for her lest she pulled away.
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[narrow width=800]he moves in close, looming large and everything all around her, as the males she had let near enough often did  —  with his rumbling, thundersoft question at her waiting cheek; that which flushes anxiously, ardently when she sees how his favor glitters in those savage-wild eyes. he moves past her painted chin, past the pulse that rabbits at the corner of her gilt jaw and aėrith has never been more certain that he can hear the blood-rush there. so near enough to nip, to taste. the northern sough of his next words, as tundrian and unknowable as her own, almost ends her; for though she does not know, she feels what is meant by that listless line of his.  "akka,"  she manages to breathe featherlight against his inkblot brow.

he draws away, and stills;
then he reaches for her.

her needlesome teeth come together as she nips the air near his advance; and it might have been a warning, a ward-evil sign, had not a smile of almost timid promise made their home in the wistful line of her mouth.

she lets him near again, and nearer still, quivering as he prods at still bruise-tender flesh enough to press soft moans from her; enough that she cannot help but let them wing free through the shivery part of her lips. enough that he dredges up the full scent of her wanting him and yes  —  it is to the goddess of all the things that make tender-tight her insides and tremor her thighs that she has given herself to this day. to her, and her haltija that would find for her what she could not on her own.

if only it were night, and they had pelts aplenty to lie back-bent upon.

but the stone of the skin of the world was more welcome, now, as the undómiel meets the part of her nightshade's jaws with a trendiling sound of shameless desire; petrified where she stood as her wildling moonshed soul pleaded to meld with his and him.

kunnhekku, kunnhekku — moonglow, moonglow, always and for-ever;
what her last's gods could not steal away.[/narrow]

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switching to pretty colorful text for his native language because it's hot and i'm tired of fighting with google translate sry

---

Against the fur of his face, she breathed out a solitary word; it paused him, his hesitation only lingering long enough to ensure that he is not about to be cruel and take by force what is not his to take. She does not run from him, does not do more than snap to spurn him on. It is not a difficult feat to encourage him where interest lied and thus when the moment seems right, the suneater does not hesitate in partaking in more delicate, more desirable fruits.

And there is a passage of time where he feels all consuming, where a wildfire burns long and deep across acreage that has long forgotten what it feels to be renewed. He does not recall the last time he has lain across such a delicate, beautiful field of flowers like her and in the end, he finds satisfaction in the completion of many things other than his own hedonistic passions.

The sun has only begun its downward descent by the time gravity draws him back to clarity, and reality begins to set back in. Nestled in the grasses with the cool air of the mountain tousling already ruffled furs, he pressed his snout against her soft shoulder tenderly with a contented growl.

“Spirit,” he murmured in his archaic tongue, “You have made a happy wolf of me. I hope you are satisfied.”
the staff team luvs u

[narrow width=800]

jdhdkddh ur fine lmaoo

---

and so it was thus that she let him catch her as a moth might be caught, and sift through the territories of her astral figure;
let him in to possess her boreal soul and likewise lose his own. he found her as she had wanted to be found by one such as he; had reached everywhere within her that had been aching to be. they returned to another again, and again, and again as darkness convived to billow down all around them; and it is only after she had gone to the moon and back once more in record time that she hears the deep contentment of him at her shoulder.

the fairylight is gladdened by his own gladness and though she returns to herself slowly, ever is she a wanting, willing paramour. insatiable, even when he had carried her beyond herself; made her formless, no matter how he framed her. 

so she folds herself against him, wordless, feeling altogether nascent and so diaphanous; meeting his rumble with a small contended snuffle and a mere, smiling berry-kiss; makes to wend her way through his arms and against his strong wardrum heart once more. but what halts her, though, is what she sees a while away, peering over his brow and between the endearing peaks of his proud ears.

or, doesn't see.

she struggled upward, breathless, owl-eyed, but fell over herself with too-eager clumsiness before she could actually gather herself up to properly rise. it happens when she tries once more and, giggling in helpless untidiness on the breadth of him, gestures weakly to where her tribute, cairn and all, had sat so unassumingly during their time together.

gone! as if it had never been  –"näyttää siltä, ​​että olet palvellut minua hyvin,"  — it seems you have served me well,she trilled and teased, letting her voice for a moment echo the deepness of his own voice. it was futile, of course, and eventually she split at the seems with more twinkling laughter. he had more than served them both; and it had been good. was good.

this time, when they were finally  ( somehow )  standing once more, kuunheku doesn't flit away from him; she couldn't have, even if she wanted to.

instead, she keeps to his side, half-boneless and coaxing him into following once more. making little tundrian noises and combing coy and gentle through what inkspilt fur and vikingr-heavy muscle she can reach of his.

there was one other thing to be shown ... but only if he wished to see.[/narrow]

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She rose in the tangle of their bodies mingling together still, stumbling and twisting away to see something; he nipped at her flank as she passed him by, at the giddiness in her actions that for a time intoxicated him so. His keen gaze followed her before rising himself, straining to see what it is that had captured her interest so.

Her peal of laughter reaches his ears and churns him into motion and he too finds that her altar and offering have been cleared. This too he finds intriguing, for his offerings are for the earth and he knows who and what takes from the many places he leaves such things; his cairns however are not technically in the same realm as an altar, at least perhaps not in the sense that he sees in her own. They were his tributes, his contributions to the ancestors of yore; he senses something else in the meaning of her world.

Distantly, as she returned to his side, he hears the call of ravens. Not one or many, but perhaps only two, and is reminded of adages of his youth. Her touch does not inspire the deep flame and burn he once felt, but he nudges her along all the same, a simple statement in the roughness of his push as their bodies press together and their wordless statements murmur in the dusklight.

Show me, he urges with another shove of his muzzle against her shoulder.
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[narrow width=800]so she does, giving little resistance to his urging; leading him by way of the gloaming with flurrying steps up, further up and farther into her lands. comes to, eventually, bring him to ridge that lets them look upon all that is above and below them; the stands of grey-green pine that come together beneath the vault of yawning, waking stars like great fortresses of needles and gnarled, ready arms; set into the foothills of all the all-seeing mountains that cradle them. "skýhvíla."  — cloudrestcloudrest.

so not all she knew, then; there was the swiftkill of the western spire to thank for this other tidbit of language she'd shared with her. it was not the name of her following, but of the land  ( yet perhaps it makes no difference, at the present moment. )

and now, hesitantly, tried:  "landið mitt. — my land ah ... nei, fyrir fólkið mitt. — no, for my people."  for even at the height of all she felt, and for all she might find the tallest spire to look down upon the world from, she would never put her reign of this mist-clad before the people that chose to follow her. she was as much a mere guiding star that she'd been in a life once lived; the spirits that ever whisper through her veins stir now, rousing the undómiel and doing away with her halting words.

she turns now to the nightshade with a simmering glint of helfire in her eye. "we will become what we were not able to,"  she continues, facing the as-of-yet nameless male in full with a dogged lift of her chin; the flame within her so searing cold that it burned bright within her belly, her breast. "we will fear no other, nor fear any god. we will take what the world has given us and return it tenfold."  be it through trial and tournament, or the auguring throat-songs of old. the children of the wealds would flourish and thrive incessant upon the example of those who raised them, charted the way for them; her own the half of a living legacy worlds away.

his. hers. theirs, and not ever again.

but his gods would not tear at her through the veil a second time. it would be her choice, as it should have been before; and if they she would go quietly to their third summons, she would fall with a great heart-cry upon jumala, spit in the face of vellamo, and give herself to the rotting quiet of kalma and the lethe of final rest.

"mistveil. that is what we will be."

she didn't have the means to translate the rest of herself into those primal ways he spoke, and neither did she suffer easily the idea of being thought of as queen; yet looks at him with clear, venerable eyes that hold so much soulful light that it sets her aquiver.

there was so much she longed to do, so that all she had told and would tell weren't empty promises, false pretense.[/narrow]

---

+2 Discovery Points

the staff team luvs u

Out of the depths of silence, another word.

This time, it was along the lines of a tongue he did know, though it wasn’t his own. The similarities were there, enough that he could piecemeal together its meaning. Cloudrest; in his tongue, skýhvíld. A fitting name for a place where mists seemed to linger, curling and coiling about what they could not pass through.

Like so, as they moved, the mists swirling at their feet and hanging about like a thin veil. It had been a perfect place to consummate ritual, if not more had the timing been right. A location that did not boast power but serenity, a fixed point in the world that could have brought them closer to their ancestors; Solpallur thought he felt them lurking as they passed by juts of stone. There was something ancient here, something beyond what he could see in the shades of soon to pass light.

The little spirit was speaking again, her tongue and its meaning fragmented.

But once again, he was able to discern her meaning through her attempts—he understood with a heavy nod that this was to be her home, that she had lofty aspirations very much in tune with he and his brother. She had her own hringja, though he did not know how to parse it across a language barrier just yet. It explained why she had been keen to lead him on, to entice him with what she had shown him, and he wondered if she had known all along on some spiritual level that he too had a calling that had to be heeded.

He said nothing, though it did not matter for she was speaking once again and this time it was in a tongue more common and lesser known to him. His head canted, brow furrowing now in full on confusion as there is less to piecemeal together and more that he does not quite understand. Yet the intent of her words is still there, the fervor she carries ever clear and as certain as a keening spear thrust forth into the world.

“Mistveil,” he rumbled.

It was said crudely, that commoner tongue so cumbersome.

---

+1 Discovery Points

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[narrow width=800]

lowkey a vent post bc sleep is a lame ass no show istg

---

although language still yet barred the two of them from more easily understanding another, there was still some sense that an acknowledgement was had between them. she did not fault him for how harshly he stumbled over the name she'd proffered over them; only pressed her lips together in a thin, remorseful line with a nod. if only she had the means of knowing his age-old tongue as those of northfall did, she might be able to reach him across that great, hollowed abyss that obscured their turns in speaking. but it was better than nothing, and the undómiel, though often melancholy, always made sure to count her blessings regardless.

so she smiles for him, then, to the one word he does speak; lets her argent eyes return to the face hewn with obsidian and set with glittering emeralds for eyes. she wonders, absently, if there is a spire that he flocks to and makes a home of, too.

but before she could inquire further, a great, sudden yawn is dredged up from deep within her being; the crest of it so strong that, even as she curved away from him out of politeness, it brought a smear of tears again to her pressed-closed eyes. she tried to turn back to the norseman, tried to ask after him once more, but was assaulted by yet another insistence for rest. by now, exhaustion had banked whatever had welled up so severely within her, leaving nothing more than the lukewarmth of embers in its wake.

"f– fyrirgefðu mér ..."  — f- forgive me...she managed to sniffle out, carding her paw over her crownless head, rubbing at the slight puffiness of her eyes. when she was finally able to look back his way, her smile was rabbitsoft, and her tone more quelled than it'd been before.

cants her smudged chin towards herself, even if a bit delayed, a little drowsily:  "aėrith."  and for only the third time, she did not fear whatever judgement might be cast over the frilly name. there were the stormborn and the voyager before her to thank for that. them all, and firstly the grave-hush male she'd lain with — worries still and often if he has had moments to rest.

for now, though, she settles into the company of the one next to her;
does not resist her own urge to admire him quietly once again.[/narrow]

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Aėrith.

A moment passes, wound in perplexities that he cannot convey nor does he try before he realizes that it is the name she has for herself. It suits her in the same way his own does he; it was gentle and soft, exuding a hush warmth to all the graces that she possessed. It does not hold the grimness, however, of his own heritage and of the things he has done to earn his own—once upon a time, he had held a different name just as all those who had come before him, and all those who would come after him.

He mirrored what she had done moments before.

“Solpallur.” The suneater.

Through the trees, a piercing light broke and the pale mists that encircled them almost glow with its dusklight of orange and gold. It drew awareness to him more, near breaking the trance the ethereal place held. No wonder she felt fatigued; he felt it too, albeit to a lesser extent and for far other reasons. His gaze is drawn to it, eyes alight and blinded briefly as he turns his gaze skyward to look through the canopy above.

“I must go,” he said quietly. “I go,” he tries again, this time parsing together the fragmented language all but he seemed to share. “I will visit, perhaps. From Hrafnsvaktin.” His voice rumbles upon much more easily in his own tongue, though he does not anticipate her understanding him still. Bits and pieces, he thinks, and nothing more. He gestured northward, towards the tundra, thinking. Would she remember, days or weeks from now?

He urged her to remember in another way, repeating: “Hrafnsvaktin.”

---

This would count for Hrafnsvatkin not cloudrest feel free to dump it there for the points - aso

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[narrow width=800]solpallur. i go. hrafnsvaktin.

she holds his calling, his leave-taking, and what sounds like a place-name on her tongue; mouthing at them, repeating wordlessly as she breathes all of him into her lungs. looks to the way that he bids her to, where beyond the purplish, fringed canopy of her pines she knows that the sprawling breadth of tundra is lain lax like the great giant that spat out the hero of her old tales.

a part of her would go with him, and not forget.

"then go, solpallur,"  she hums out, stout ears politely folded for him as she steps closer to brush the pink of her nose up the heavy lock of shoulder.  "ja kun molemmat tapaamme jälleen, olemme kasvaneet."  — and when we meet again, we will have grown.yes  —  grown into the skin and bones of the chieftains they were both meant to be. grown as their respective people grew; studded and set throughout the land like so many precious gems whose worth is more than all the world. she only hopes that she will wake with the sun upon her face with blooming aisling by her side, come true morning.

hopes that all she sees and who so stands before her is not simply some conjured-up gosforsaken thing.

and she would miss his company for more than just the wanting.[/narrow]

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The mix of languages again, the touch of her cool nose against his rough coat; he will remember these things for a long time, in snippets of dreams through the misty haze of the mind’s eye. Good fortune would come to he and his own and of this he is certain—his ancestors smiled upon him on this day, and he felt favored by their gift of such a gentle wisp.

Wordlessly, he departed from her with nothing more to add, his movements like a steady shadow growing as he made his way through the forest and its misty veil. He trekked westward for a time before turning northward, cutting his way back through the brambles of another patch. He slowed through it, snapping a bush branch off to take for himself but not as a trophy or a memory, but as an offering.

The more good will and tidings he could bring home, the better.

Hrafnsvaktin would rise, in time, much like her Mistveil.
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