the raven and the crow

A grim dust settled over the landscape, soft in its landing, pale as snow in its descent. Small flakes drifted downwards and fell in sheets across the slate fur of the slumbering wolf, disturbing the soft layers that draped over his resting form. Toustling the thick crown that enveloped his throat and neck, the wind blew through the trees and the open winter in a calm melody, whistles of woe waning in and out of earshot. Delicately, one ear twitched; Vahaelarr, though cast deep into a sleep so deep, stirred stiffly. The snow had sunk deep into his fur and had bitten at his bones, threatening to freeze him into nothing but solid ice -- or so it felt. 

The wind continued to grow in its ferocious assault of the lands, bringing snow to lift from the ground in unruly hurls of floating dust and rattling the corpses of barren trees where they stood firm. Unrelenting against the worsening conditions, Vahaelarr’s undisturbed form remained silent. Stoic, and peaceful. Until it did not. Eyelids thought frozen shut flickered open in an instant, revealing the lilac eyes that burned red hot. All was but a blur. Shakily, Vahaelarr rose to his paws, limbs unsteady, shaking with a violent tremor that spoke volumes of the cold that sunk through his fur. The surroundings around him reeled as his vision throbbed, the blur that plagued his eyes cautiously unfolding, giving way to clarity. He saw dead trees, blankets of sleet and snow. Nothing beyond that. 

And then his mind was pierced, a hot pain shooting through the channels of his brain, as if his skull had been cracked by mighty jaws. Vahaelarr managed nothing but a choking ‘ACK!’, jaws unclenching in a gag, bile coating his mouth and tongue. A distant memory unfurled itself, coming back in a tidal wave of emotions, curled up in one wad of discomfort and molten pain. 

Vahaelarr felt nothing but seething fury as he stared back into the eyes that reflected his own. His sire was nothing but raven fury, a herculean brute marked with scars that served as the transgressions of his past. The daunting Patriarch of House Crownore - and alongside him stood her. His mother, the Winter Knight. A cold dame renown for a commanding past; she was winter itself, wrapped up in a layer of ice.

And Vahaelarr was their youngest son, and their largest disappointment.

“You dare stand before us after what you have done, child?” The taunting voice of his father caused the wolf to flinch, pooling instant embarrassment and shame into his stomach. Bile rose in waves up his throat as he stared back at his sire, and then towards his mother, steeling himself before her.

“I did not-” Vahaelarr’s voice was overpowered by the silencing shout of his mother, anger bitten on her jaws that snapped. It was an order that he would not disobey. The wolf could do nothing but turn, ignoring the icy resentment that stared down his form. He could never return home… not after what had happened.

The silence that hung within the air was thin, unbroken. Vahaelarr’s form shook, not only from the freeze, but from the shaking memory his mind had produced. He knew who he was, he knew where he came from -- and part of him wished he did not. He broke his gaze free of the ground, daring to move his eyes away from where they had been pinned and once more gazed around the winter forest. 

He did not know where he was, but this was not home. 

---

@Gjalla

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Cold winds tore through the frosted vale with a bitter vigor, much like the winters of her naval home. It would howl and racket against dead trees, sweeping up frost to drag deeper into the strath. Icy breath billowed inches from her maw, black-tipped ears pinned back against the wind and swirled through raven fur. The woman had not gotten far before dark clouds began to cluster overhead.

Pale eyes pulled from the treeline to regather her surroundings in search of shelter. The once-bold silhouette of black mountains that surrounded the summit was now veiled in the blizzard's fury, concealed beneath mounds of snow.

Over a lump, she would lose her balance and stumble into more snow, letting it climb her chest and cling to her pelt. Curses whispered from her lips as she regained her footing, her neck swiveling to inspect the form she had almost overlooked.

Nostalgia came bleeding back with smells far too familiar to be a coincidence. Like something had been charred with embers, tinged with a fresh crisp. Gjalla’s eyes would widen as she padded back toward the figure.

He was a ball of slate grays and dark fur thrown over a toned build, spine powdered with fresh snowfall. Yes, she knew him. He was twitching in his sleep, browline furrowed. Must've been a bad dream.

The raven-pelt crept forward, head dipped low as she extended her nose to gently nuzzle his form. "Vahaelarr?" She hummed over the wind, tone soft, but the brute didn’t move, lost in the throes of his nightmare. A pang of urgency tightened her brow, her concern knitting it into a furrow. “Vahaelarr! Wake up!” The she-wolf repeated into the curve of his ear, louder the second time as a paw lifted over him to swat the man (gently) in the snout.

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As the biting frost weaseled itself into the thick hide that Vahaelarr wore, wakefulness became him. Lilac eyes, hardened by trauma and experience, were revealed whenever his stiff eyelids parted; and his nicked ears, all but frozen solid, twitched at the sudden noise that brought him to life. Her voice was that of iron--a comforting sound which he knew, one that billowed like the warmth of puppyhood. She was fire and ice, a song that Vahaelarr knew all too well. Her voice served to anchor him to life, and the steelen mountain began a slow descent from the snowy blankets beneath his paws. Like a beast laid to rest for centuries, he rose with a steady countenance, slate fur bitten by frost and snow molding against him with each movement. 

A confused cough came, and the wolf gave a shake of his head, attempting to unstiffen the muscles that lay dormant across his frame. Eyes careened towards the raven furred wolfess beside him, and his cold eyes visibly unthawed with recognition. He was, without a doubt, lost -- but it appeared he would not be lost alone. 

Disbelief bit at the voice of Vahaelarr as his lips parted to speak, tone rough and gravelly with lack of use: “Gjalla...?” Her name fell like stones from his lips, both a question and a statement. Vahaelarr was not one who so quickly threw about physical affections, but the relief that poured over him was almost enough to will him to press a cold nose to the wolfess’ cheek fur. But he did not, and could not. 

“Where am I?”

Nothing about the region struck any cord of familiarity in the knight’s mind. From the snow capped trees to the mountains that soared high, touching the stormy clouds above, his heart knew not a thing. 

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Eyes of violet fluttered open just as her foot had snuck close, withdrawing quickly as the man blinked himself awake. She'd ease, slumping back into the snow with a relieved huff as calm would wash over her. He wasn't dead, thank the gods. Many had been since she awoke after the freeze. "Fuck, ȳdra daor gaomagon bona." — don't do that again. Her mother tongue rolled from her tongue with eloquence despite its hissed tone. "You are safe. Daor lenton, yn ȳgha." — not home, but safe. She'd add in response.

Gjalla did not move to touch him, resting back on her haunches as snow continued to patter against her fur. "Are you alright?" The words came much softer than the wind, sincere. He looked fine, apart from the cold. It was the dream that worried her.

The wind would swirl around them, forcing tufts of fur forward as ice stung her eyes. "As much as I love the snow, perhaps we should seek shelter - talk there." The princess suggested though it sounded closer to an order than anything. Lifting to four paws, she used her form to shield him from the violent gusts of wind until he, too, could gather his bearings.

Her gaze scoped over the territory until icy eyes found a space where the rocks along the bottom of a mountain split into an opening. That would do. "Can you stand?" She would help him if he could not. She'd welcome his touch - find solace in it, if she had to. It wouldn't be a challenge.

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With a mindful nod, Vahaelarr's gaze gripped onto Gjalla’s with an icy fervor, clinging to her every last word. The resonance of familiarity mixed with the unsettling mysteries of their surroundings created a mosaic of emotions within him. It was as if the fragments of memory had been scattered across the frozen expanse, and he was left to piece them together. The bitter cold caused his very bones to ache, his mind was a fog, and the wolf wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep. 

The chill wind brushed against his fur, causing his spine to be raked over ice hot coals and creating an uncomfortable shiver, however Gjalla’s voice lent him strength and the steadfastness in her gaze was a comforting fire; steeling him to life. "Ao mistake issa syt someone qilōni ēdan nykeā lenton, Gjalla." — You mistake me for someone who had a home, Gjalla. He spoke, a sense of grounding taking root in his words. Despite the uncertainty, there was solace in being reunited with Gjalla. 

He took a moment to fully meet her gaze, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. Then, he focused on their surroundings once more, his seeking to understand the intricacies of this place that seemed both familiar and foreign. "Bona would sagon wise isse these jelmior." — That would be wise in these winds. As he carefully pushed himself to his paws, his movements deliberate but steady, he let out a low breath that hung in the air like a wisp of smoke. With a subtle tilt of his head, Vahaelarr cast a long gaze around their surroundings. Just above, veering out from one of the many mountain tops, was a ledge which promised shelter. He offered Gjalla a nudge of his nose to direct her attention towards the abandoned den. 

Vahaelarr's gaze met hers once more, a glint of thanks igniting within his lilac eyes, noting how she shielded him from the elements. “I can stand,” he confirmed, his voice holding a quiet resolve. “Thank you.” He muttered. With measured steps, the brute began a cautious trudge towards the lair, a synchronicity born of years of camaraderie guiding their path through the biting cold. The wind roared something fierce, shoveling the snow around them up into the air, carrying it with a violent fervor, threatening to shatter his resolve.

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Her brow would lift at the statement, and a pang of pity would sit at her chest. Gjalla could not mend lost bonds, but she could offer old sentiments and make proposals anew. "Rūsīr issa, ao gōntan." — With me, you did. You would, she wished to add, but the words would not form in her throat. Gjalla was far from kind-hearted, but she'd be foolish not to sympathize. Family meant the world to her - and by extension, he did too.
 

Her gaze would follow his to the ridge, pensive. The she-wolf said nothing more, merely nodding in mutual understanding as he lifted. Together, they'd move to invade the mountainside, and she'd watch him with a careful eye. The snow would shallow as they approached the den, the mountain serving as a shield from the raging snowfall overhead.

 

Her paws, calloused and weathered, found purchase on the coarse stone of the den floor, a stark contrast to the icy surface outside. Her tongue flicked out to moisten her dry lips as she walked along the den's walls, searching for any residual warmth. She settled towards the back, lowering herself to the ground with her tail coiled to her side.

 

With a subtle glance, Gjalla beckoned him to join her, periwinkle eyes shifting from the spot at her side and back to him. "I assume you just got here?" She prodded gently, tilting her head to rest against a flat stone as she rolled onto her side.

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"Pār nyke māzigon lenton." — Then I come home. He spoke in response, the ancient words resonating deep within his soul. She watched him as if he did not exist, and he eyed her with a similar emotion. Relief to be at her side, it was clear within his lilac eyes. Though stoic he was, there was a tenderness that unveiled itself within the words of the wolf. A loyal Knight at the side of his Princess, a guardian even if she was her own. If Vahaelarr knew loyalty, it was to Gjalla.

The mountainside beckoned, a sanctuary from the relentless snowfall that blanketed the world in a desolate white. There, amidst the majestic peaks and rugged terrain, was refuge. Vahaelarr knew winter, he was made from ice and snow, born anew from it’s cold embrace; yet in his vulnerable state, body wrought with shock, he sought the warmth only the den could provide.


He trailed behind the form of the raven furred princess, and felt the stark contrast between the biting cold outside and the comforting heat within. Vahaelarr’s weathered paws moved with practiced grace across the rocky floor, the coolness of stone warm in comparison to the biting iciness of the snow. He was attuned to the faint traces of other wolves etched into the stone, their scents long faded. The fur that spiked and bristled along his neck and hackles calmed, and he watched as Gjalla situated herself against the wall of the drey. She beckoned for him to join her side and the steel paladin relented with a dip of his crown, huffing quietly as paws trudged forwards. Muscles tense from the near freezing experience still, he stiffly pressed his side into hers, quietly seeking the warmth that radiated from her pelt.

As she rolled over, the brute remained laying upwards, his head careened to watch the entrance of the den, assuming a watchful role despite all that had happened. Old habits died hard. There was a comfortable rumble that sounded from the chest of Vahaelarr at Gjalla’s question.

“Yes.” Vahaelarr replied. “but that’s my thing.” He murmured, casting a confused look towards the wolfess. “Where is here?”

His gaze wandered to the den's ancient walls, from their rough surfaces to the cracks etched into its rough stone. “These mountains… the snow. It all reminds me of Winterhelm.” He fell silent for several moments, lilac eyes glazing over with a detached sadness, silently recalling the memories of home.

It was likely he would never return. To them, he would always be Lēkia Ossēnagon. Kinslayer.

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Gjalla was notoriously thick-pelted, more so than many. With an ebony hide and luxuriant curled fur, it sucked in heat and held it there. Vahaelarr was not as fortunate, and it showed, leaving his skin to feel frigid against hers, bearing a frosty sheen. The princess would twist as he lay beside her, angling her neck to drape over his back. 
 
A comfortable quiet would envelop the den, broken only by the thrashing wind until he asked a question of his own. Gjalla had no answer, in truth. "No one really knows. Unless you're freshly born, you merely wake up here." The raveness shrugged, eyes shutting as the man spoke again.
 
The princess would nod in understanding, a low hum settling in her chest. "There is another mountain-range, north of here, much like Stormrift," Gjalla remarked, eyes flitting to peer outside the den at the distant summit. Deeply rooted in loyalty and bound by faith, she continued to cherish the ties of old and uphold her faith here. "My mother's scent lingers there, but fades as days pass." With this new world, they had been stripped of their kin and homes, leaving only painful reminders of their past. Here, they could start again.
 
Vahaelarr was pensive. Hurt. Gjalla had been missing from their world for over half a year, but she had not forgotten what had happened with Winterhelm nor the title they endowed him. Kinslayer. Sentiments and apologies would not soothe that pain, so she opted for an alternative. Her tongue clicked against ivory fangs, and her nose gently glided across the fluff of his neck. Specks of snow clung to her fur, dusting her chin in a transient white before melting away.

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Vahaelarr's frost-tinged pelt stood in stark contrast against Gjalla's own raven pelt, the frigid sensation of her warm pelt against his ice bitten coat a reminder of the chill that clung to him desperately. Though physical touch was usually unwelcome by the reserved Vahaelarr, he did not shy away from the touch Gjalla offered. Her neck, layered in curls of ebony, was left to press calmly into his back, and the stoic paladin’s eyes closed just briefly as he soaked in the comfort her presence brought him. She was a hot coal that stoked the languid fire that burned in his chest. Slowly, but surely, the stiffness of the cold began to melt away from the sleet colored brute, and his body would begin to untense, surely noted by his companion.

In the confines of the den, a serene stillness reigned, occasionally pierced by the unrelenting howl of the wind just outside of their small haven’s entrance. Gjalla’s voice broke the solitude that’d fallen between the two of them, leaving Vahaelarr with more questions than he had begun with. So this… this is where she had disappeared to. Vahaelarr had spent months agonizing over the disappearance of Gjalla, looking for her where others no longer did. Though he didn’t voice it, he was sure she knew this. His head lowered just slightly as he peered upon the stone floor and eventually his own paws, turning them over again and again, tracing the signs of wear that were etched into his cracked paw pads.

She spoke of her own home and the one she called mother: The Starborn Queen. From where the two of them hailed, only the young and the ignorant did not know the name Aruna of Brehn. To hear that Gjalla had caught scent of her mother was a shocking revelation, but no change came about the face of the wolf, instead he remained unchanging and unflinching, offering the ebony furred Gjalla a strong form to lean upon if she so needed. He would be that for her as he always had been. He now could be again.

“Perhaps you will see her again.” The same, Vahaelarr feared, could not be said for himself. A silence fell over him once more as he set out to process the reality that had been hurled upon him, before shifting so slightly, tail tucking against Gjalla’s side.

His eyes would narrow with a vexation, before his head perked and turned towards the wolfess, eyes tracing the form she cut against his own. Nostrils flaring ever slightly, Vahaelarr breathed in her scent, devouring it, as if he would not have the chance to again. He supposed if he had to choose, there was no other he’d rather be trapped within this realm alongside than Gjalla. “Princess,” His voice almost collapsed under pressure, but remained strong, “I thought I failed you.” He rasped. “I have made many failures, but if anything were to ever happen to you-”

Something hardened against the Knight’s face, something dark and yet undying. “It would be my greatest yet. I swear to you,” He moved so that he could meet her unrelenting gaze, his own reflecting a desperate strength, “I will be your shield.” There was promise in his words, an oath he dared not break. He did not await her response before stirring and allowing his head to fall against his paws.

“Goodnight, Gjalla.”

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The princess would let out a hopeful hum in understanding but left the mention of the queen to rest. The queen was a specter in the shadows of her past, but the stars would serve as an everlasting reminder.

"Never," Gjalla would hiss, brow deepening at the mere implication. The man was not bound to her by any laws or duty - but by his own volition. That alone was more than she could ever ask of him. "You could never fail me, Vae."

Lilac orbs met periwinkle in a moment of vulnerability, and Gjalla would soften under his gaze. Her chest swelled with warmth. "And I, your shield." Gjalla muttered, letting her chin dig against the plume of fur at his neck.

"Rest easy, Vahaelarr." The princess would watch the sun begin to peak through the dark clouds, brightening the sky with hues of soft gold as snow shifted outside the den. Gjalla's eyes remained watchful until the knight found sleep, and she, too, drifted.

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