Cover me, 'cause I'm changin' lanes

Just north of Cloudrest at the base of the mountains on the Tundra side.

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 Moving south of her once beloved Morðfjall, Valmúa wondered what her brothers had gotten up to in the time she had been away. Though she didn't often pay them any mind, they sometimes invaded her thoughts with vague curiosity and even a hint at joy. They had still not come to see her in the woods of the firebrand and her tiger prince.
 She had begun to move westward after recently discovering that a pack, Vanderfell Woods, sat within the peaks above her home terrain. Surely there were others she did not know of after sitting for far too long in the great north. Her attention had been so focused on Tsukiishi and that foul little empress that she failed to see potential threats right under her nose. So overwhelmed was she in the throws of toxic passion that she had grown blind to danger.
 No more.
 She would move and scout, as she had once done at length. And in fact, it did not take long before she noticed a smell toward the base of the opposing mountain range. It was faint, which told her that whoever lived south of it lived beyond the wall of rock and stone. Narrowing her eyes, she investigated with her nose, trying to judge who was here and how many. It was impossible — the snowfall was fresh and covered whatever tracks she had hoped to garner.

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still does her mind pass back into the far-beneath; thoughts cast like damnable things into the old, redolent, utterly mortal and treacherous uncreation. no longer does she fret over things of stale air and endless perdition, though; rather, she turns these things over in said mind as listlessly as one would kingsgold between their palms. still does her body remain temporary; still living even when she had demanded her tundrian gods for lifelessness once more. in the moons that have followed after her ending, however ... the ache that remains has lessened. the heart that beats so brokenly is no less aquiver than it had once been, and her lungs are still pierced with shards of glasslike guilt, but ... it is more manageable.

hopefully.

the hours-ago scent of her children is still in her fur as she jaunts her return to the wintersgate; a bit of ragged fluff little more than what eas deemable as hare caught up between her jaws. fire flickers along the edge of her vision, glinting; and so it is that she promptly drops her find into the snows therebeyond and makes to approach the ember come to life. sees how she quests —

"the presence of my people is not as apparent as it should be, i confess," the nightingale calls, a rueful curl to the corner of her lips; stature so much less than the flame yet militant all the same. "is it passage through the mountains you seek?"

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 A woman, small and light in stature holds a hare as she begins to make her way through the snows. No doubt she is heading to a mountain that she calls home; Valmúa can smell her scent on the wind and notes that it is the same as the only obvious markings she has found in her search for otherdom. Anything else is impossible to tell, but she is a pack wolf. She is well fed judging by her silvery and shining fur, probably of her own doing, and has others to care for.
 What Valmúa does not see is a leader. She does not see a mother. The silver woman appears meagre and dull to the firebrand, silently judging her in misplaced contempt, but her judgment did not hold long.
 As the silver woman nears, a jagged, hideous set of scars across her face is obvious. It sends a bolt of confusion through Valmúa. Beaten and not killed, Valmúa wonders how a small woman like this could have survived such brutality. She wonders at the story. It makes her listen closer and hold her body in a more respectful, relaxed posture.
 “No,” she answers bluntly to the strangely regal words of the bright stranger. Why would she go over the mountains if she could simply walk past them, largely unnoticed? She would be able to make it back to her Everfrost in the next day or two, barring any obstacles.
 Valmúa decides quickly to answer as she had to @Ira: in feigned grace and politeness she might find kindness. “I am Valmúa of the Everfrost,” she introduces quickly. “I am only seeking knowledge.” She doesn't directly ask any questions. That could be considered rude. Instead, she watches the lady of the mountain for a reaction, just as she had at Vanderfell.

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tagging @Solpallur for tiny mention ♡

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if she notices the initial, lofty look-down or minds the lack of inquiry a little while later, the nightingale does not show it. rather, she looks over this one known as a scholar of the everfrost with a martial study and hums out shamelessly: "you hold yourself well, valmúa," and though she does not know it yet, the particular lilt of the fireheart's chords will gnaw and nibble at the edges of her mind until it is far too late for her to remember who especially it reminds her of. that this valmúa is so plainly mehtar — a warrior — the heft of her shoulder, that solid, straight spine! — makes her laugh low and unbidden; short and stone-alive, the recognition of it striking hilt-deep into her weary heart. it makes her lean just a smidgen forward; the pink of her nose flaring as she quests for a scent of her own.

"i am riannon," muses she idly, "of the hollow cloudrest. it is ... vitality that i seek," but does not yet give way to the true cynosure of all her wandering and half-wilting; for though she takes mothlike to the flame before her, they both are still very much a stranger to another. it has been some time since she has given tell of her heart's desire to a fellow seeker ...but for now, her lips remain sealed on the matter. instead: "it is hard and terrible, as all norths are. even more so during these moons," ears fluting away, absent and almost prim, "but i would not have it any other way. it is as it should be. as we should be." nods stiff at her own words — then, before she forgets —

"how has the everfrost fared for yourself? this is the first time i have known someone to settle there, really."

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 Valmúa nods respectfully, as through showing that she agrees with the woman. She does hold herself well. The fire woman is coated in the scent of musk from her tiger prince, a smell that she wear with a strange sense of pride. She walks the earth knowing that she is allied with no large pack but can still manage any foe. It is a frightening, real, freeing feeling.
 Riannon speaks of cloudrest, gesturing just beyond them. Her pack is there, Valmúa assumes with her well-fed and spirited nature. Of vitality, the firebrand isn't sure. Vitality might mean she seeks to take the lives of others. It could also mean she wants good lives and health for her people.
 As Valmúa listens, she tries to piece together what is meant by the silvery, scarred woman. “It is a hard winter,” she admits, though for the most part she has not felt it. Though she had no pack, Valmúa has had a suncat to assist with her hunting. He has been a master of creatures small and large. All of them have been brought to their keep, and she has been well-fed without any pack as a result of her and his doings.
 “Our forest has proven resilient as ever,” she hints. She goes on, happy to tell the other of her and her Lord after her visit to Vanderfell. “The Lord of the Everfrost has been kind and pleased this winter. We have been keeping the gateway to the north well and solid.” It is a hint at something that the fire woman has been thinking about. She had been wanting to build a presence in the north, wanting knowledge for her growing thoughts, wanting to have something that others do not.
 The red woman waits for a reaction, hoping to ask for more details of Cloudrest.

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