phantom's dance

at borders

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The wraith's body laid upon the snow, still as death, cradled in the dip of a narrow valley between a pair of sky-reaching spires. Stray snowflakes drifting sleepily from the clouded night sky. One at a time, they landed upon the dark hairs of the wolf's pelt. Her closed eyelids twitched as through enraptured in a dream.

Warped voices uttering indecipherable words swam through her head. Scenes of a blizzard flashed. A bull elk rose up from the curtain of snowfall like a god. Thunder clapped. A burst of pure white—

Arnarkla woke to a splitting headache. A ringing in her ears. Moonlit eyes were begrudgingly revealed, rolled this way and that to collect her bearings. A fruitless attempt: She could hardly concentrate.

Use of even the most meager muscle felt like a Herculean feat. It felt like a process of reanimation, remembering what was connected to what. All done while laying flat on her left side like a carcass. Even the corvids and vultures—the death omens they were—had begun to circle above what they believed to be an easy meal.

Her shadowy limbs were stretched, pushing out the fresh layer of snow around her. A clipped groan slipped out as she began pushing herself. She found her paws just as a young, cocky raven swooped down. Its underside smacked into the side of her head, clapped her face with its wings as it flew away in a panic.

Once more, that burst of white flashed across her vision. The world began to spin and her body became unsteady. Tinnitus rang shrilly in her ears and her right ear went deaf entirely. Arnarkla was left stumbling blindly, limbs desperate to keep her from falling back down to the ground.
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This place reminded him of home, though the chill in his bones was not quite as deep, nor as bitter. A fine of dusted snow had settled over his coat as he strode over the stretch of lands between Morðfjall and the Vale, covering him in the pallid color that he had been born as. Over time, his fur had taken on the gold and cream colors they sported now, giving him something of a unique look when compared to some of the other northern-bred wolves. Even his sister sported something different than the norm.

A rough shake of his coat freed his mantle of the veil of white, removing the thin disguise from himself temporarily. The Vale sitting so close to his mountain was a blessing, as it provided a reprieve he found solace in, and it was quickly becoming one of his usual haunts. There were many wolves within the bounds of the mountain and sometimes, Stjörnuáti needed a moment away from it all.

His reprieve broke at the sharp call of @Sýnin, who wheeled above him suddenly to assault a circling of ravens and vultures. Frowning, Stjörnuáti turned and followed his feathered companion, finding it unusual that he would disrupt the workings of his own kind. There would be a reason for it, the stareater had no doubt.

Such was proven true when he found the draw of the scavengers: a bedraggled and hurting woman, trudging through the thick snow.

“Heil!” He called to her, keeping his distance yet. “Is kona injured?”
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The call was muffled by her impaired ears. It sounded far away, warped like the voices she had heard before coming to. Despite the world blurring around her and the pathetic incompetence of her body, the thought of an onlooker was a dagger in pride.

“Láttu—” — Leave— A bite in the word, but the rest of her sentence came out in mumbled slurs. Láttu mig í friði.... — Leave me alone....

The she-wolf's chin clipped the ground in a stumble, forelegs barely catching her. The frozen earth continued to summon. Gravity sought to tug her down with invisible tendrils. Her hind legs went out from under her, and then the rest followed.

She had forgotten: fighting an episode was futile.

The villturvofa — wayward ghost laid on her right side. Jaws agape as she panted heavily.

The world still spun, but its velocity was lessening.
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She could not stand but it wasn't due to weakness. Keen eyes noted there was no shake to her muscles, rather a wobble that was attributed to dizziness.

Stjörnuáti's frown deepened. Scouting out the neighboring was supposed to have been boring. Uneventful. Not him trying to think of his closest medical stash. But he was too far from home to have access to any of them. Sýnin would be his answer then. Looking to the pale raven, Stjörnuáti spoke in their shared tongue.

“Leitaðu að engifer og komdu með það til mín.” — Look for ginger and bring it to me.

His attention returned to the woman, who he approached, keeping the close borders of Philos to his left. “Breathe, kona. Deeply. Tell this one what ,” He instructed her, lowering his head to examine her pupil. “Tell this one hvað amar þig. What is kona feeling?”
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The stranger approached. All she could manage was a raise of her hackles. She was too tired for the frostbitten fury she once wielded.

Her left ear flicked at his words. They reached were like a reverberating melody—she struggled to focus on them. Each word a puzzle piece but from two separate puzzles. Her brows furrowed as she tried deciphering which language was what. She clung to the libretto of mountain tongue. Near a minute passed before she could finally muster a deadened response of debatable coherency:

“Ekkert.” — Nothing.

Her legs had gone numb.

There was no panic. The worry had ebbed away. She knew it would all pass like it never happened. Such was the way of a curse.
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Stony countenance darkened at the answer, at the manner of her answer. A bad sign. Rumbling to himself, Stjörnuáti tossed his head back and howled for someone of this pack to come down and be made aware of the situation. He knew how it would have looked to him.

Sýnin returned quickly, flitting down to deliver the root of ginger to him. Snatching it from the ground, he bit into it so as to split it in half with his teeth. Without biting into it further, he set the root-piece down in front of her mouth and encouraged her.

“Chew. Will taste ógeðslegt but chew. Swallow.”

---

Calling @Cassian (or anyone from Philos)

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Arnarkla winced at the howl. The thought of more witnessing her in this state left a bitter taste. There was little to be done about it.

Her left ear twitched at the flutter of wings. The world's twirling was gradually coming to a standstill. More words were spoken. A moonlit eye, still rolling from the dizzy spell, finally found the speaker's face. Blond, dark-eyed. Blurry, still.

Her nose wrinkled at the stench of the herb passed to her.

Chew. Ógeðslegt. Swallow.

Herbs and their odd, off-putting flavors were not alien to her. Nonetheless, there was still hesitation. One bred from distrust than distaste. While her knowledge of herbalism was limited, she knew some could heal and others could harm. The wraith found herself not caring. Death came one way or another. The arrival of a second stranger almost had her wishing for it. With a grimace, she forced the ginger down while another voice spoke behind her.

Trespassers.

That word alone was enough to make her eager to leave. The mountain wolf scowled as she stretched her legs in an attempt to awaken them. She couldn't even feel her toes. Each limb tingled as if they were being poked by a thousand needles.
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Vanille had heard the howl. How could she not? The strength of it echoed through the Vale, pulsing against snow-banked mountains and winding between stray trees. Strange and unwelcome, Vanille was all too eager to accept such an invitation.

Apprehension kept her on Philos' edge as it was, so the trek to the border was brisk—quick, even. She was upon the little crowd within mere moments, taking in the males with a disgruntled sound as she padded closer. A figure laid between them, obviously hindered, obviously in need.

“Oh, shut it, Cassian. Do you wish to whip things out and compare, or are you going to tend to the wounded left upon your border?”

Her tail swept behind her as she ushered an old friend out of the way, taking in the smaller woman with a soft hum. “Men.” She mused to the other quietly, her gaze sweeping over them with furrowed brows before her head lifted to address the cream-painted male. “One of yours?”

---

will post again after arnarkla to keep order <3

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“Engifer help the instable. Dizzy.” He rumbled quietly, watching to make sure she did as she had been told. A flap of Sýnin's wings and a grip of his talons upon gold-dusted shoulder alerted him to the arrival of another, though he did not immediately tear his attention away from the woman.

Only when the other man spoke, did the stareater turn a narrowed gaze to him, his countenance remaining stony, body remaining relaxed. He was not fearful of the leader — it was obvious by his scent and the general air of hégómi — self-importance. But the man could boast and parade about his dominance and ego all he wanted. Stjörnuáti did not care, nor did he care to challenge the man over any of it. If the leader thought they were truly trespassing when his pack's scent was this weak, this far out...

Stjörnuáti would have handled a true trespasser differently.

The arrival of one of the man's own — a slight but powerful little thing judging by the way she held herself — had his attention switching, though not before he glanced down to watch the woman start to try and move. “Eitt augnablik. Ég skal hjálpa.” — One moment. I will help. He spoke quietly to her before looking back to the other female. “No. Sýnin spotted kona from distance. This one came to help. You help kona stand with this one?” Because why would he ask the man who cared only about his own importance?
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Engifer. The man could have named the herb in any tongue—they were all the same to her: a plant presented like a minor miracle. The taste was sharp and earthy on her tongue. A small grimace twisted her shadowed face as the ginger was swallowed down.

A fourth joined them. She wished for the snow and ice to swallow her up.

Her ear flicked when the herbalist spoke to her. Sentences only of mountain tongue. An oasis of familiarity. Easier to parse. Arnarkla said nothing in response. She was trying to determine what he had to gain. A favor in return, of course; but, for all he knew, he could have been dealing with a cripple.

Movement in her periphery had an eye darting over to fall upon the fourth. A she-wolf cloaked in misty timber.

"Men."

The word alone had the corner of her lip curl into a faint smirk of amusement. It was short-lived. She was still at the mercy of them. Still wondering if she had consumed a poison. Her haunting gaze shifted to the sky while the herbalist spoke to the woman and the other man muttered away in his foreign tongue. The sky was thick with clouds whispering down a light snowfall. There was no moon to pray to.

A small mercy: the world had finally steadied. Her legs were still useless—she wasn't sure if she had managed to make a paw twitch or not.

Her eyes settled on the herbalist. His shoulder—his head was just out of sight without moving her head. The less she moved, the better, she thought. A hide dusted with the gold of a twilight sun that had yet to breach the horizon. Upon his back perched a bird of ice.

"Trespassers" rumbled through her head once more and she finally realized she had no idea where she was. The villturvofa was meticulous about avoiding borders. How the hell had she managed to find herself right upon them?

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He heard the howl, bit it took him a lot longer than he anticipated to get there. When he did, there were many several individuals. Igor was war torn and battle ready, but even he immediately clocked the two strangers within his new packs midst as being no threats. He couldn't say much for his king— the language spoken was not one he knew, sharing only a few common root words and that's it. He could hedge a guess as to what was going on though.

He stoically took everything in, analyzed what little of the language he could and then he decided. The great bear moved forward, passing Cassian and Vanille and ignoring the grumbled words his master spoke as he took in the downed female. "Head wound?" He would rumble out, words a deep timbre bass like ancient stones rumbling together. Head wounds were tricky and could be fetal if it was serious enough. He might have been a warrior first, a chieftain second, but his wife and dam made certain he knew the basics.

Note - quick little response from igor <3 dont mind meeee

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Engifer. It was a foreign term, a name she hadn't heard amidst her years. A pretty language. Perhaps, if Cassian found his way out of his ass, they might share a thing or—Cassian's mumble jerked her attention his way, a stern stare leveling upon him. “Do you wish to share with the rest of them or are you going to continue to speak behind the blinds of a language they can't understand?” This was the leader Philos was left with? An immature boy within the body of a man? Gods help them.

A chuff of annoyance passed through her lips. Her attention was needed elsewhere. “Let her ease. She does not need the crowd to witness every twitch.” Vanille's words were adamant, the snap of her jaw daring any of them to oppose before it was, again, Cassian speaking up behind her. What he wished for, she couldn't be sure. Did he think her a callous woman, turning away every glance or worshiping touch, or did he think her frail and untouched—flowered, still, after all these years?

Vanille gnawed on her tongue until it was the taste of copper that flooded her mouth and not the cold's scent. “Это предложение?” — Is that an offer? Her gaze slipped over him daringly, eyes narrowing. “Или обещание?” — Or a promise? She scoffed at him and turned her head back forward, taking in the stranger's words until it was the deep baritone of Igor that met her ears. “Медведь.” — Bear. She breathed to him in greeting, taking in his acts with an interest she hadn't afforded Cassian. She didn't know Igor knew anything of herbs, of injury. “You impress me still.”

Vanille sighed as she lifted her head in a low nod to the blonde male's request, murmuring softly to the woman below. “They will leave soon, you have my word. You must rise now, it will not be fun.” No, it might be painful, even, but Vanille couldn't be sure. This was something she'd never seen before. No visible wounds, no words, no explanation. She was simply following another's lead.

And then again, the nagging, the whining. Vanille nudged Igor's shoulder lightly, a silent plead to have him take her spot in assisting the small woman so that she might reel in the waste beside them. “Укуси. Или я сделаю это за тебя.” — Bite it. Or I will do it for you. She snapped her teeth in his direction for good measure, brows drawing inward as she glared. “Ваше сострадание оставило вас,” — Your compassion has left you, Her eyes fell past his chest briefly, a flicker of attention given. “возможно, это была просто еще одна вещь, которую тебе не дали.” — Maybe it's just another thing you were never given.

“Be quiet, leave, or make yourself useful.” She grunted before turning.

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Petulant. Immature. Irritating. Was this strákur truly the leader of a pack? His own children were better behaved than this. Still, the stareater said nothing. He didn't need to, as one of the strákur's own tended to that. Better them than himself, for Stjörnuáti would not have used words, at this point.

A grunt acknowledged the packwoman's suggestion to make it so that none were staring at the ailed one. It was a thought that he hadn't had, more concerned about tending to her than the attention piling on top of her, especially as another showed. The Northman braced for more attitude and instead was question about the woman's health. So was it the leader as the odd man out? Why did they not oust him, he wondered, before the thought was swept away.

“Nei. This one does not see and smell head injury. Kona is instable. Svimi. Ah... Dizziness?” All this was said as he waited for the woman's assistance, though she passed it to the man that had joined them while she tended to the drengjaleiðtogi — boy leader. “Once kona stands, this one can carry to safe place. Near cache.” It was a far jaunt, but the woman was small in comparison to the Jarl, and he would make it work one way or another.
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