Force that dreaded raven to depart.

Time had ticked by slowly since reuniting with the group led by his brothers, painfully so. The bite marks atop Rökkvi's obsidian snout were healing well and the sting no longer remained to remind him of the shame of that day, but that did not mean he'd forgotten. @Stjörnuáti's demand request had been that he locate him when he was done being a "childish fool", something the ironborn could see clear enough now that the dust had settled, but he'd always been a stubborn creature and continued to avoid admitting responsibility for his actions. Sooner or later he would indeed seek the stareater, but until then he would hold onto the hope that such an encounter would happen accidentally.

As the sun began to dip that evening, the brute roamed the raven's keep to better explore its higher reaches. The air felt thin and the temperature dipped; he enjoyed the familiar bite of cold on his paw pads and was content to press his flanks to various rocks and cliffsides as he went. It was only when the wind picked up and the frozen rain came that the rogue turned focus from exploring to seeking shelter, as he didn't feel much like being buffeted to his death on the more narrow trails he'd happened across.

Hail settled among the coarse furs of his nape and shoulders, and clung there as he ducked his head into the small entrance of an ice cave that he found, and he moved as deep into the little cave as he could. Rökkvi puffed up his pelt to trap the air beneath his guard hairs and pressed himself to the rear of the hollow as he lowered himself to lick the excess moisture from his lower limbs and wait out the worst of the hailstorm.

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+1 Discovery Points

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God I'm sorry for the wait on this. :c Do you mind if we present date this?

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From the darkness, Stjornuati appeared, moving forward from within the depths of the cave Rokkvi had discovered. That his half-brother was here was surprising though the stareater's face schooled itself into impassivity, paws bringing him to a slow halt. The dominance he had displayed in their last encounter was absent, tail hanging limply behind him. Here, alone, Stjornuati would not act unless given reason to.

Maroon eyes considered the male, ears switching forward to show that he was waiting for the iron born to say something. In this, perhaps there was some subtle display, forcing his brother to speak before he did. His tail flickered behind him, waiting, watching, willing Rökkvi to stop being the thick headed asni — ass/idiot he had been lately.
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His solitude was short-lived, for movement in the shadows at the rear of his shelter caught the ironborn's attention. Rökkvi lifted his heavy crown to investigate with a narrowed stare, nostrils flared to test the chill air, but the distinct scent of a particular sibling did nothing to slacken the tension in his muscles.

Stjörnuáti stepped forward then, cool and collected - seemingly void of his prior aggression. A dark ear splayed backward in acknowledgement of the pecking order, though he didn't entirely trust that the starearer would not make another attempt to assert himself.

A beat of silence lingered between them, maroon eyes lingering expectantly on his hail-littered form, and Rökkvi failed to seek his brother's features. Instead he fixed his stare to the other's upper forelimbs, the longer fur at the curve of his proud chest, and exhaled. “Ég hafði vonað að þú myndir fyrirgefa mér áður, — I had hoped you might forgive me for before” was his weak attempt at apology, and it pained him. Carrying on, he admitted: “Mér skjátlaðist. — I was mistaken”


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He was no inattentive fool; the knowledge that apologies in particular were difficult for his thick-skulled brother was well-known. Such expressions had never been of much use to them, physical gestures far preferred to verbal assuages, though in this moment, Stjörnuáti found himself grateful for the words. The gilded male knew what it cost the ironborn, knew what drove the male to such lengths, such shame. He also knew the cost of the purposeful, poignant avoidance of the meet of their gazes, an action that served to further settle whatever feather had been ruffled. That they were both such proud creatures had never done them well when it came to strife and tension between the two but Stjörnuáti was pleased to be able to step forward and knock his head against Rökkvi's in rough affection.

“Gjört, — Done,” He said roughly, lingering for a moment before stepping aside so that he no longer blocked the larger male's way. Should Rökkvi continue into the cave, the stareater would join him. “Segðu mér hugsanir þínar um þetta fjall. — Tell me your thoughts of this mountain.” The request was simple, easy enough, but Stjörnuáti made it known then that he still valued the opinion of his gruff companion, without actually speaking such soft words.
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He felt it, the weight of his shame, boring heavily down onto solid shoulders. It sank like lead in the pit if his abdomen and the interval that hung between the brothers following his admission of fault was wrought with tension. Rökkvi wasn't sure if Stjörnuáti would look beyond his pride to forgive him for the accusation, if he would reach to wound him once more with fierce reminder of his place. The ironborn waited, quiet, and with a deep frown of contemplation.

His expression remained impassive as the elder sibling concluded their conflict swiftly, and he ducked his head to lean forward into the gesture with a low growl of gratitude. Rökkvi pressed his brow firmly to Stjörnuáti's, steel against gold, and he was content to move on from there.

“Ég held að það sé góður kostur — I think it is a good choice,” the ironborn answered simply, lifting his muzzle to sweep his gaze over the frosted blues of the ice cave's ceiling, “það er enn margt að sjá — there is still much to be seen.”


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The moment of shared affection was brief, there and then gone just as quickly as it had come. As far as he was concerned, what was done was done; if they were to be able to move forward, together, grudges could not be held so fiercely. Stjornuati knew his brother was a hot-headed thing and so, too, knew that this would not be the last time they butted heads, just as it had not been the first.

A rumble of affirmation rattled his throat at Rokkvi’s assessment of their mountain, agreeing wordlessly that there was more to it than met the eye. He sought to explore such a facet now, easing deeper into the cave with the sureness of a man who knew he already owned the mountain, and everything that came with it.

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+1 Discovery Points

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He said nothing more, and Stjörnuáti did not answer with words. The stareater turned from him to press deeper into the cave and Rökkvi followed quietly, content to do so in silence, with champagne eyes drinking deep the icy wonders that the the mountain could offer.


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