pirka paykar

Since arriving to the frozen caves many moons ago, the ghost’s hold on this strange world had never truly solidified. Living wandering from unknown vista to the next, the Ijiraq had consistently passed through various landscapes and followed a menagerie of trails, each day bleeding into the next. It was no real difference to her if a facet was here, or there now; so long as she could scrape up an occasional meal to get by on, and stay off the radar of most unsavory sorts, then she kept ranging onward for as long as the tactic worked.

When she woke up and the season seemed to have shifted overnight, the initial panic waned fast. The earth was healing. A held breath was released. With greenery in rich full return, it had been too difficult to fret for long--plentiful moons were soon to be upon them. It was just another simple fact that this world was the strangest she had known yet, but she got up and went about her day, and presumably the life to come after.

Then, on a northward trending journey, she crossed new forests and valleys, some more remarkable than others but all unknown to her. On a new, dawning spring day, this whim led her towards an unknown mountain rising out of the morning's mists. Something ancient in her blood was satisfied by the path that drew slowly into its foothills, and with this inkling on her heels, curiosity sparked fast. There, her nose flared over the first hints.

She knew it was wise to stay alert.

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awkwardly relearning to write her, but yeah looks at @Stjörnuáti

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Her wisdom did not fail her. There, high upon the cliff's edge, watching her pale form venture closer and closer, lay the stareater, the Northman that would once more claim this mountain when the right time struck him. He'd been marking it here and there, of course, but nothing so devoted as though he was ready to make that claim now. Still though, his scent was there; he could almost see it in the way her demeanor morphed the further up the mountain's foothills she got.

It wasn't until the woman had crossed some invisible line that the man rose and began his descent, gilded form no doubt easily visible in the soft morning light. He did not rush, nor did he stall, simply moving at a pace that felt natural. Often, he paused to inspect something along the path, though it only ever held him for a few seconds before he moved on. Nothing was more interesting to him then than the woman who was now so much larger in his scope of vision than the ant that he'd seen her as before.

“Ver heil, — Greetings” Stjornuati called to her as he closed that final distance, ears thrust forward and tail lifted slightly. “Do you search for something?” Why else would she be upon his mountain, if she was not looking for something?

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Indeed, the mountain had eyes. She would not be left to her own devices for much longer, sniffing around casually at their doorstep. The nearer to the elevations she drew, the more distinct the impression became. There would be no doubt.

She spotted the motion of it first, with wind not working well enough in her favor. Awareness prickled up in her, but as a loner of no homeland, she already knew she could be placing herself in danger's footholds.. However, little about his approach inspired outright concern so far. Irura still did her piece to keep the stranger in her line of sights. Maybe he was just as curious of her business as she was of this mountain.

Ver heil, he said, and though the exact meanings were lost to her ears, she did not detect malice, nor any accusation. Perhaps a greeting, if she wanted to be hopeful. On the edge of flight, should it become necessary, she tilted back her ears and kept a low tail. Good manners, as she turned to regard the cream-coated mountaineer properly. “Irankarapte,” — Hello she greeted per her custom, nose dipping then. “Not.. exactly. I am a wanderer. I did not recognize this mountain, but it seems familiar anyway,” she answered on a quick glance towards the foggy peaks. Maybe she had passed by here once before. A real search felt too specific, though. The Ijiraq feared there was nothing left of the before to find by now anyway, and the next meal too basal an answer--so what else remained for the ghost? “This must be your home then..?” she gently pressed.

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The way her body strung, as if ready to pivot away from him and bolt, was not lost on the man borne of the blizzards and the unforgiving cold. Paws drew to a stop a fair distance away from the woman cloaked in moonbeams and ævintýraryk — fairy dust, an unspoken declaration that he would not harm her or encroach upon her space. Such a declaration would go out the proverbial window, should she prove a threat, but Stjornuati was confident in his judgment of her demeanor.

He did look upon the peak when she noted it's familiarity, considering her words and the possibilities surrounding them. The Northman supposed it was like many mountains and yet unique all at the same time. It had a peak, of course, but for one side to be shorn away, as if bitten off was something he did not see all too often. That, and the unkindness of ravens that lived upon its face, in its forest, was something he favored as well. It was the reason they had chosen this mountain afterall, though now that he thought about it, what had once been a single mountain was now a small range. No matter, for he would still call it his own.

“Ja. This one claims Mordfjall for Hrafnsvaktin.” It was then that Stjornuati took the moment to sniff at the air between them, noting her scent, and how it did not smell of others; only her and the wear of her travels. “Where has wanderer come from?” He asked, dark eyes looking past her to the stretch of land that lay behind her. What could he learn from her, he wondered. Anything was useful, for the lands had shifted about them. New and old places alike now built their environment, something the an had not traveled all too far to see yet. He wanted to establish his claim here first, ensure that his home was safe before going off to satisfy that wanderlust that claimed a spot deep within his soul.

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With all that went unspoken between them, it seemed they had the beginning of an understanding, and the pale wanderer appreciated well in times like these. Such luxuries could be few and far between. The mountain man did not press her space, and neither did she come to insult his home, comrades, or whatever he may be piece of here. If he did not wish to humor her curiosities, then she would take them and disappear, easy to forget. But he did not repel her yet.

This was his claim. Naturally, a significant mountain would have inhabitants. “Mordfjall,” she repeated after him, blinked, and considered it deeply as she tasted it for herself. It stirred no real memory, was coarse on her tongue, though not bad. She did not turn away.

But, where did she come from? Unfortunately, she had no easy answer for this. “My kotan — village is far behind me, and now I have no paths back,” she explained, her expression empty. All the grief about it was quieter now, spent. She was not afraid to admit that there were no trails back to her past for her to go on. Nothing but hazy recollection of an ill-fated hunt then suddenly, waking to the blue cave that still sent shivers down her spine. “I woke up in a frozen blue cave some seasons ago, lost and separated from my fellow hunters, so I have only wandered these strange, changing lands since.” The ghost explained.

“But, I want to hunt with others again this coming summer,” she added, edging in this intention for him to consider, and the Ijiraq watched him keenly for the first reaction. He had a mountain, she assumed it had quarry and that he might know other wolves to help enforce a home. If there might be a niche, she was going to have to scope them out before the autumn came--and make her appeal before she got any skinnier than she already was. She feared another winter alone wouldn't be in her best interests, and she was tired of missing the seasons of the best good game just because she had no compatriots to run with.

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To have no paths that lead back home was a familiar thing to the stareater. He had lived his formative years with his natal clan but after that, when the hringja had reached out and taken him away from his birthlands, there had been no roads home, for he had had none. He was a wanderer, a wayfarer at heart, or had been until Mordfjall had called his name and Solpallur's. That he had been placed back here only strengthened his resolve to take the mountain for his own.

“Then you will run and hunt with this one and those who follow,” He would state simply, head lifting in nothing more than pride. There, behind him, the mountain that killed many, that had a graveyard all its own at the base of that shear drop off, stood tall and equally as proud. “Hinir sterku lifa hér af. — The strong survive here. We are few but we will be mighty.” It was a promise he had no problem making, for the weak of heart and mind would not thrive here. The mountain was too hard, the winters too harsh, for anyone that did not have that drive for life swelling deep inside them.

“Ja?”

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The mountainman's answer seemed to come so simply. After this, she would not need to roam alone. Just like that. Certain facets of the language might not be for her ears (not yet), but she liked to think she still got the sense of it all. We will be mighty. It was plenty of assurance for her, and more to grasp than she had seen in moons.

She could add another to their numbers, and soon, learn their trails, settle in, then go from there. Together they could strive towards such a strength. “Yes, iyairaykere, — thank you” she answered dipping her snout, obviously grateful for such a smooth acceptance of her wants. The relief was yet to take full shape, but already--she was glad to have given to the whims that brought her here. Easily enough so far, and thanks to him and his mountain's call, she gained much: her summer had greater prospects already. “I chose well to come here today then,” she said as her tailtip switched in a rare expression, pleased with a productive encounter.

In return, she would have to share her own title. “I go by Irura,” she provided. “Ijiraq, previously of the ipetam.” Perhaps it was more for her own sake to say so, as he could have little idea what these words even meant to them. Soon, she would be able to show them what it meant to be considered among the blades though. With her, a piece of their influence would carry on--on into whatever future Morðfjall had in store for her.

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Want to close this one up and have a new one?!

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Her answer brought forth the slightest of smiles, his tail waving once, twice as she agreed and formally accepted his invitation to join him upon the mountain. She would be a good wolf to have in the months leading to winter, for no doubt it would be harsh upon the mountain. He, of course, did not understand the words she spoke last, but did not question it, as she had not questioned his. They understood each other in a way that not many did, despite the fact that their languages were vastly different. It was wolves of a different breed that operated like this, and it was those wolves that he understood best.

“Irura,” He repeated, his accent weighing heavily upon her name. “Stjörnuáti,” He would reply. “Come. This one will show you the mountain,” He offered, though she was welcome to turn him down and explore on her own.

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Tempting as it was to test his name on her own tongue, she withheld for now, committing it to memory with a dip of her head instead--still too wrapped up in the relief of what had just come to be. It was all that truly needed said, and she was more than willing to take him up on the chance to see the mountain. “Lead the way,” she conceded readily, eager to see what was in store for her now, then with the motion would fall into step with him.

As she glanced past him into the peaks, she trusted it was the right move. Her day, and her entire spring, would be more interesting now.

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sounds good, this lil thing can end it!

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