There's gold in the dirt I never took the time to see.

Ice clung to Rökkvi's guard hairs in frozen diamonds that littered his crown and dorsal while the winds roared around him. He pressed on through the blizzard, having set his sights to a faint blue glow in the distance before the storm began to rage, fuelled by determination to seek shelter there - but the thick haze of drifting snow across the open tundra swept it from view. Unsure even if he was moving in the right direction, the ironborn shouldered on through the gusts as though they were nothing.

By the time he arrived at the caves, and stepped into much-anticipated shelter, the raven of his spine was blanketed in snow. Rökkvi was swift to shake it from his hulking form, but the icicles remained as he shifted to venture away from the entrance and deeper into the azure hollows.

Nostrils flared, he could smell the presence of wolves and on closer inspection, was sure he'd detected a whiff of @Stjörnuáti. To this the brute rumbled lowly, still sore over his assumption at having been left behind, and set about searching for a trail to follow so that he might demand an explanation. 


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“Bróðir.” It had not taken long for the stareater to find his brother, having felt a draw that led him away from what he'd been doing. There was a curiosity in his eyes, something that glittered there, unsaid. They had been wondering what had happened to the others and here, one of them showed. Unbidden, and untainted with the scents he swore he could remember. The howl of wind outside punctuated the silence between them at first, moments passing before the wolf padded closer, a rough nip and bump of his head given to Rokkvi's shoulder. 

“Það gleður mig að þú hefur fundið okkur. — I am pleased you found us.” Closer now, Stjornuati took another breath, parsing the scents that clung to the darker male's fur. But there was nothing that hinted at any of the others being with him. “Þú hefur ekki séð neinn af hinum. — You have not seen any of the others.” The assessment was straightforward, and perhaps a touch disappointed. They would need to continue their search.
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Deeper he roamed, a dark ear pricking to the clack of another's claws echoed throughout the glass hollow. Rökkvi paused to root himself in wait, champagne eyes sharp as they searched ahead for the arrival of what was sure to be one of his wayward brothers.

Stjörnuàti made himself known, though the ironborn did not regard him with warmth. The stareater paused before him, seemingly take a few moments to look upon him before shifting to venture closer - dangerously so. Rökkvi felt the familiar prickle of guard hairs along his shoulders, though the ice that settled there prevented them from raising.

The butt of Stjör's brow to his shoulder was met with tension as he steadied his frame against the gesture, and it was the roughness of teeth at his hide that flared his building temper. With a lip curled, Rökkvi rumbled his dissatisfaction of his brother's decision to ignore the fact that he'd been abandoned in the snow.

"Svo þetta er þar sem þú hefur verið að fela þig — So this is where you've been hiding," Rökkvi accused, dense tail lashing at his hocks, "í von um að ég myndi deyja? — hoping I would die?"


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A stillness settled over the male, liver colored eyes regarding his brother with a cool demeanor. Rokkvi had always been bitter over the lack of his inclusion in the sal binda between Stjornuati and Solpallur, but never had it manifested like this. Tail flicked in agitation, not giving the larger male any space. Their closeness meant that the pale Nord could see the venom in his blood-brother's gaze, could see the hurt he wielded with no aim or precision. 

“Fyrirlitlegur, — Despicable,” He intoned, any warmth he'd had for Rokkvi's appearance slipping away to nothingness. He would not be disrespected, not even by him. “Myndir þú saka mig svo auðveldlega um að vilja dauða þinn? — Would you accuse me so easily of wanting your death?” He stepped closer, this time with threat and annoyance, muzzle wrinkling to show yellowed teeth. “Ef ég vildi drepa þig, bróðir, þá myndi ég gera það með eigin vígtennur. — If I wanted to kill you, brother, I would do it with my own fangs.” 

If Rokkvi wished to sort this here, and now, Stjornuati would not hesitate to rise to the occasion.
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Rökkvi had not always been such a short-tempered creature. As a cub he'd been remarkable: cool, focused, an easy learner. It was as he matured that he grew bitter, soured at the failure of others in noticing his potential no matter how he tried, and began to act out in a desperate cry for attention. Even more so, to be the only brother of the three who had no real part in the comradery that the other two so flaunted, had hurt him irrevocably.

His place in the world was uncertain still, and while Rökkvi had accepted that that position would be forever lesser, he'd continued to hold onto the bitter jealousy that had bloomed in his youth. He'd challenged his brothers their whole lives in this regard, more often than he cared to admit, and he'd stubbornly tried to resist the hringa that turned him toward their path before attempting to bury his age-old grudge and relenting to fate's decision.

Now, it exposed itself in the sharpness of his accusing stare and the bearing of his teeth. Stjörnuàti saw it clear as day and pressed in close, enough that they stood chest-to-chest, but Rökkvi made no move to bow away. He welcomed his gilded brother's words, and the deafening silence of his response spoke volumes: if you wish to kill me by your fangs, I'd like to see you try.

He was pained to have been left behind, enough that old memories of being an afterthought to his own family had resurfaced. So while he fumed, his intention then and there was not to fight his brother. He wished only to make it known that his loyalty to Stjörnuàti and Solpallur was not disposable, and that he would not accept such disregard again. "Af hvaða ástæðu, þá — For what reason, then," the ironborn spat, "valdir þú að skilja mig eftir? — did you choose to leave me behind?"


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Af hverju ímyndarðu þér smáatriði þar sem engin eru? — Why do you imagine slights where there are none?

The question weighed heavy on his tongue. He wanted to ask, but at he same time, this behavior was childish and worth less effort than the breath it would take to give his question voice. 

There was no warning to his movement, save the slightest change in the weight of his stance as he lunged, teeth seeking to grab the muzzle of the brother that sought to question Stjornuati's loyalty to his own blood. This would be a lesson Rokkvi would not soon forget; the stareater would make sure of it, his snarl rippling and resonating in the glassy caverns.
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He dared to meet his brother's dark eyes, dared to press against him, push him. It was a bold decision, a rash one, but Rökkvi had always been the most fiery of the Stormskýli brothers - he was not known to think much before his actions. So while he knew in his bones that testing Stjörnuàti in this manner would not end in his favour, the ironborn was too infuriated by his assumption that he failed to consider the consequences.

With muscles taut he stupidly stood his ground, fully expecting the goldfur to argue back. It had been Stjörnuàti, after all, to have chosen to invade his space and Rökkvi stubbornly refused to submit. Dominance was not what he wanted, never what he wanted - only an explanation.

One he would not receive, as the elder sibling shifted to lunge for the leader's snout. Rökkvi attempted jerk back, but not before Stjörnuàti was too fast for him to avoid as his fangs found purchase and punctured, enough to force his snout downward and free blood from beneath each canine. He parted his own jaws immediately to emit a furious, throaty snarl in response. Gathering his forelimbs beneath his chest, the brute moved to charge forward in effort to connect his peppered brow with the gilded stareater's pale chest like a bull to a red flag.


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It wasn't dominance. If it had been, Stjornuati would not have gone for his face. This was a matter of pride; he would not allow any to question his loyalty to his blood, especially not a brother who ruminated in his jealousy, looking for things to twist against Stjornuati, to try and what? Shake Solpallur's faith in the pale ghost? The notion made the male angry, lashing out with teeth and frustration that had built over the years. If the gilded male could not prove to his blood brother that he did not seek to rid their group of him, then there was no trust between them. 

Had there ever been, or did Rokkvi simply want Stjornuati out of the picture?

Rokkvi was a giant, a brute, far thicker than the stareater but far slower as a result. A quick maneuver pulled him from the male's brutish path before be lunged in again, seeking to grab the scruff of the envious wolf and wrench him down to the ground.
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It all happened so quickly. In a swift move, Stjörnuàti was gone from in front of him and materialised by his side, like liquid gold, to reach for the frozen hackles of his dark ruff. Rökkvi, gripped like a whelp by his dam, was quickly reminded of his real place in the world: beneath his brothers.

Down he went, heavily, for as infuriated as he felt there was not enough energy or true will within him to fight with the stareater. His body slumped to the frozen ground and he growled, a low rumble that dissipated into deafening silence.

Alright, the beast thought fiercely, pinned firmly, and sheathed his gritted fangs, you've humiliated me and made your point, now let me go.


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He did not let go, not immediately, not allowing Rokkvi to decide that they were done. He was the one that had made such an accusation that Stjornuati had had no choice but to protect his pride and honor. Only when the stareater had held him there for several long moments did he release his blood relative.

He did not skip back out of reach, instead standing over the slightly large, slightly stupider male, tail arched over his back and hackles bristling all along as he postured. Now, Stjornuati displayed his dominance, snarling and snapping his teeth close to Rokkvi's face once more. “Finndu mig þegar þú hættir að láta eins og barnalegur fífl. — Find me when you stop acting like a childish fool.”

Deciding that he was done with this nonsense, Stjornuati lingered over the other male for only a moment longer before prowling off to go find his true brother, even if their blood was not exactly the same.

Stjor exits mad. :(
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He lay motionless, inhaling deeply and exhaling lowly in attempt to ease his frayed nerves, and Stjörnuàti did not immediately release his hold. Rökkvi, stubborn and impatient, bit back the threat of a rumbling growl that rose in his throat as he scented his own blood that streaked his raven-tipped snout. He did not even make attempt to soothe the fresh teeth marks with his tongue, so sure he was that any movement would further enrage his snákur — snake of a brother.

He shifted when release finally came, rolled a stiffened shoulder and prepared to gather to his paws, but it seemed the stareater's attempt at humiliating him was not enough. Stjörnuàti's fangs were revealed again, came snapping dangerously close to the ironborn's brow; he ducked away, keen to avoid further spillage of his own life fluid. Upper lip curled, he glowered with a fierce golden stare to the paler wolf's rear as he turned and made his furious exit, though it was only when out of earshot that Rökkvi spat his frustrations: “Rassgat. — Asshole”

Carefully, he pulled himself upright and shook out his frozen pelage before he turned to roam deeper into the caverns in search of a place to nurse his wounded pride.


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