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Åshe has been alone, too. For a while it seemed that there had been nothing for her to do. The snowy forest around her had gone solemnly quiet. The birds stopped singing, the voles stopped chirping. The silence began to drive her mad, but she would say nothing. Åshe was strong.

Silence would not kill her.

But the loneliness just might.

A masculine scent— foreign, but distantly familiar— attacked her nose. It swarmed her, enveloped her like a sweet hug. A fellow member of Hrafnsvaktin. Had there been more? Åshe had no idea. She hadn't a singular clue. She felt embarrassed then. Embarrassed that she didn't know more.

So she followed it. The scent.

She wanted to meet this man. See him in the flesh. She'd hunt him down like prey. A wild beast, even as thin as she was. Åshe had lost a surplus of weight. Perhaps the silence was killing her.

The Matriarch found him then. The man. The color of soot and ash. A link of goldenrod draped from his mouth. She sang, "You..."

She assumed he didn't speak her tongue. "New?" She'd approach him, curious. It had been a long time since she had talked to a stranger man. The feeling was...child-like, exhilarating. She felt like a teenager.
 

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Åshe hummed at his response. She nodded her head once. Her feet carried her to approach him. Åshe's body language read what she was: regal, confident, unafraid. Because it was true. She was unafraid. What could he do?

What would he do?

Two... she knew what that meant. Moon... Moon... Moon...? Moon in the sky! The cycle. A small 'ahhh' left Åshe as she put it together in her head. "I am no new." She would say, trying her best to piece together her common tongue for him to understand.

"I live here long time." She was curious about the plant that dangled. She knew it was goldenrod just by the smell— but it had been dead. What was he trying to do? Plant it?

"What doing?"
 

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Åshe waited for his answer. He looked shy almost. Had she caught him in the act of something? Her mind drifted to Stjörnuáti— should he be made aware of such activities? But...what were the activities? Åshe didn't know. Not until he would answer her—

Garden. She knew naught what that word meant. But she did know plants. Healing. Her eyes lit up as he spoke those words, low and embarrassed. She countered his cadence, light excitement peeking through. "Me too." She would say, coming closer to him. Only a few inches separated them.

"I help."

It didn't cross her mind that he thought it was stupid. Åshe would do anything to continue to grow their medicinal supplies— albeit the mountain didn't supply as much as she liked, but she acclimated and made do with what they had.

She didn't think a male could have the capacity for such a trade. He was built to be a hunter— warrior— not a loftly medic that sits on the sidelines. Åshe preferred the solitude of the sidelines. It was comforting for her. An easy routine for her to be comfortable with.

"Follow." she would say, not giving him time to object. She turned on her heel, pivoting towards the forest. She would take him somewhere special.
 

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Åshe didn't say much on their journey. She took him through the tall, gargantuan trees that stared down at them, creating a shadow of delirium overhead. Good, she would think. You'd have to be born on these mountains, or, be around as long as she had to know the proper trail. It was a secluded fantasia of Åshe's imagination.

It was hers.

But maybe it was time to open the doors to let a little bit of light in. Or darkness.

Living a life of solitude had grown eerie and overly moderate for the healer of Hrafnsvaktin. Åshe craved adventure. She craved life. The mountains provided it all for her, granted, but what lied beyond the veil of snow and conifer trees? She had met that man that one time.

Aakron. He was a nice gentlemen. But he was lackluster. Or maybe it was her— Åshe didn't know how to communicate anymore. Didn't know...didn't know. It was hard. It was hard to talk to others that didn't speak her language. It frustrated her.

"Here," she lead him through a veil of hanging white wisteria that lead to a warmer part of the territory. While frost still kissed the ground, the soil was rich and flourishing due to the natural irrigation of flowing river water and hot rays of sunlight.

"Garden." She attempted to pronounce, the word fragile and awkward on her tongue. "You plant—" She said more confidently this time, side stepping the beds of soil that had already been uncovered.

Åshe had already been busy. There were budding seedlings of other plants beginning to grow. She walked around the plots until she got to an empty one. "—here."
 

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Åshe wouldn't mention anything about their proximity. In fact, she preferred it. She had felt far too lonely— Stjörnuáti had been too busy with a damsel she didn't know, and Rökkvi...

He didn't even really know her. The other members never introduced themselves to her. Not that they had to[mash] but it meant something to her. The activity around the mountain summit had been dwindling these past few weeks— months and Åshe thought she had been going crazy.

Maybe she still was.

She watched closely as he buried the dry stalk of goldenrod. The motion of his nose was gentle as he nudged the dirt aside, yet forceful Åshe gulped. Her eyes had been forced away when he was finished, and she looked away quickly, a blush growing on her face. She waited until it would cool.

He asked her then about the garden. What it was called.

"Garðr," she'd say for him, slowly. She'd say it again, ennunciating. Åshe had always been one to teach. One to share her culture. It was no secret— but above all it was sacred. Sacred to her. What could be more important?

"Needs water." She'd mumble, "Follow. Please." She would wait for him this time to join at her side. Her lashes batted.
 

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The matriarch of Hrafnsvaktin let her eyes ogle at him as he attempted to pronounce the word. A soft huff of air left her nose— a half giggle as he kept butchering the pronunciation. She believed that he could get to know their combination of languages over time, if he so wished to learn.

But for now, he sounded like a child. "A baby," she'd say as he approached her. "You speak like baby." Åshe she teased him, her tongue coming to her teeth.

She'd lead him not very far through the thicket to a flowing body of light blue water. It was a small stream, but Åshe had been here enough times to know about its properties. The matriarch would make sure they were close, her shoulder-grazing his every so often as she would take a step. A habit of rearing against him. She learned at a young age that to show affection was to be close to another.

She would say nothing as she would graze the side of her body against his.

"Here," she'd leave the warmth of his side to grab the wood cutlet that she had carved with her teeth by the roots of a tree. When she returned, she gently laid the wood carving at his toes. "Water."

She'd wait for him to figure out what to do with it.
 

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She'd watch him struggle with the wooden cup, clear amusement ridden on her face. She held back a laugh, swallowed it down, and only sat down on her haunches after his second attempt. They'd be here for a while.

She'd notice how he couldn't pick it up properly. He got the dish in his mouth, but the water quickly slipped away once he wanted to carry it a further distance. Åshe would hum, waiting for him to finally make the choice and ask for help.

It didn't take that long.

He simply gave up. He laid the dish to the ground with a gentle touch. Åshe would watch, fear in the back of her mind that he would simply drop the dish, let it clang, and echo against the harsh terrain. But he didn't. He was careful. Mindful about her creation. Her eyes looked from the dish to his, clearly, disheveled appearance. "Bairin,"

The word came out like a curse. Albeit it only meant 'baby,' in her native tongue.

She stepped forward, invading his personal space. She spun the dish in an appropriate direction. The ridges had been dented there more intensely, a place for her teeth to settle in and hold it at an appropriate angle. Her jaw clamped around that piece, lifting it with ease, and scooped up some water from the river. The ridges in the bowl allowed for her to carry it at a slanted angle, and her lower jaw had been strong enough to support it.

Flaunting around him, Åshe would strut, encircling him. The water did not move— droplets here and there— but most of it still apparent in the bowl when she set it down by his feet. "Strong jaw," she'd comment. "Yours is like baby's. Bairin."
 

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The matriarch felt the irony of insulting the state of his jaw. By his toned build, muscled arms, and aged physique, it was no secret to Åshe that he was strong. A fighter. Drengr. That much to her was clear. In fact, it shouted in her face every time she let her eyes slip from the grasp of his own pearlescent hues.

He repeated the word back to her. His pronunciation was sloppy but clear enough for her to understand. He asked her what she had meant— Åshe simply shrugged her shoulders, saying the words over her own again. "You," she took a closing step closer to him, back arched, letting his figure tower over her. Let his thick scent envelope her, caress her, as she would allow it. "Bairin."

And then she was gone, separated from the warmth of his proximity. She bent down, rotating the dish for the proper way for him to grab hold. "Bite." Is what she would say. The best form of instruction she could offer.

She didn't know if he could do it. She wanted him to. Wanted him to learn the ways of her. To be home, or with him. This was more than just the wooden carving. Could she have both? It would be up to him. In his own prerogative now. "Gentle." She'd whisper, voice finding a new softness to it as she watched him anxiously.
 

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The matriarch couldn't be more than overjoyed to see him take her bait. To see him lower himself to the ground, shoulders bent with brief intent. What strength they held was unknown to her. She needed to know. For even him to stand confidently next to her, she needed to know what skills laid beneath his soot-colored fur. She prayed to the Nords that it was not only plants that he was attentive to.

'It is you,' he had uttered to her, his voice deep and predatory.

There it was. That fire she wished to draw out of him. What she wished that he put on display for her, openly. But then his head had returned to its normal height, and she briefly looked away, as if her interest had been lost. If he didn't wish to tell her the meaning of it then fine, she would poise him in another way.

"Can you run fast," she'd lower herself to him then, a naturally submissive arch and duck of her head as she closed the space between them once more. Her voice had been a lull, kindred to a whisper as she prodded him. "Or are you slow, too, like bairin?"

A light giggle left her, teasing, cocky with her word choice. Her mouth had been only inches from his muzzle, his scent swelling around her, enrapturing her in its masculine overcast. "Show me," Åshe would demand, departing herself from his side without any warning. She bolted for the trees, waiting only a second to turn her head and face him, letting her tongue slip out of her mouth in a child-like, teasing manner.

Then she was gone, bolting through the trees of her beloved home.
 

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