To a soft and bright greetin' from the sun

Beneath the heavy, overcast sky, Felmont lay, lost in the labyrinth of his own subconscious. His lean, tattered form lay sprawled upon a bed of moss and damp stone, dark fur in clear disarray; an appearance not necessarily unseen upon the wolf. Above the male, the forest canopy held an air of somberness, casting a muted palette over the landscape below.

Time would pass, and with it, consciousness slowly seeped into the bones of the wolf. Felmont's ears twitched, and nares flared cautiously as the scents of the world around him began to hurl against his senses. The forest, bathed in the diffused light of the overcast day, whispered secrets in the rustling of its leaves and the gentle creaking of its branches. Felmont’s groggy eyes would open briefly, and he stirred, attempting to blink away the blurriness that creeped around the edges of his vision.

Veiled by confusion and wariness, his head would lift, before turning in every direction possible. He observed the dark tree trunks that rose like ancient sentinels amidst the underbrush, each one cloaked in a tapestry of moss. At their bases, snow crept up the bark, threatening to freeze it dead. Past the intense fog that layered itself between the dotted pines, Felmont could hardly make out anything; nothing past what his vision revealed. 

After attempts to familiarize himself with his surroundings, he pushed himself up from the forest floor, his movements deliberate, yet tinged with the same bewilderment that clouded his thoughts. The moss yielded beneath his paws, the cool, damp moisture from it squelching between webbed toes. 

Memories of how he had arrived here eluded him, slipping through his thoughts like elusive shadows. Around him lay a world he had never seen the likes of before, and it was almost as if he’d been tossed into it without rhyme or reason, a disconcerting puzzle with pieces scattered about, naught to be found. 

This was no dream. The forest was more than alive, but it was one that felt utterly foreign to him. Felmont’s usual cunning was eclipsed by the fog of uncertainty. With no choice but to go on, he took tentative steps forward, each paw ahead of the other deliberate and practiced.

---

@Stjörnuáti 

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“Hættu. — Stop.”

From the fog, he stepped, a wolf cloaked in creams and golds and an iciness that matched the mountain he claimed as his home. How he had known the man was here was as simple as the mountain and the earth and the winds had sung to him, a voice woven among all of it that he followed religiously. The hringja. His calling. Where it led him, Stjörnuáti did not always know but this time, it was as plain as the hazy sunlight that began to cast itself across the mountain.

There had been no scent to alert the man of ice to this male's presence, meaning that the world had twisted and churned out a new life once more.

“Name.” He demanded in the common tongue, aware that few spoke his own. While there was no outward display of aggression, it sang through him all the same, the cut of his maroon glare fastened harshly to the male swathed in branch and bark.

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He all but choked upon the very frigid air that blew through the forest, coming to an abrupt stop at the sudden boom of a voice. A fool he had been to not notice the lingering scents of wolves--and as he stood, silent and chapped, the several scents flurried around him.

They became a billowing storm, one that caused shame to light like a fire across the skin of the brute. Uncomfortable in his own skin, it seemed, and it was a feeling foreign to the wolf who usually adorned an unchallenged swagger. The blur of confusion still plagued him, and he was making uncharacteristic mistakes; one so simple as not bothering to further investigate the area could have gotten him killed. 

His eyes, burning with a sense of helplessness, snapped towards the figure who had, quite literally, come out of nowhere. He’d likely been watching Felmont the entire time; ’Fool!’ He cursed himself.

Though, as circumstance had it, he recognized the initial language the pale furred male had spoken. His ears rotated into a lofty perch atop his chiseled head, nose twitching as he inhaled the scent of the other. Strong, masculine. Judging by his body language, he was the top -- or amongst the top -- of the wolves that laid claim to this unknown area. 

“They call me Felmont, pale one.” The reply was short, gravelly. 

"Þessi lönd tilheyra þér, tek ég?” — These lands belong to you, I take?

 
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“They do.”

His answer was short, simple. Felmont seemed, at the very least, to be quick on the uptake. Not only that, but he spoke the language of the North, and that at least put one mark in his favor.

“The gods placed you here,” He said, uncaring if it made sense to the man. Many, Stjörnuáti found outside the borders, mostly during his wanderings to the Veils and the lake beyond. There was only one other — besides himself — that had woken upon these very slopes, and that was his brother.

It made him wonder about Felmont.

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Felmont regarded the stranger with a keen, calculating gaze, his golden eyes betraying little of the thoughts that swirled within his mind. The stranger's words hung in the air, cryptic and laden with mystery; he intrigued Felmont, and that was what kept the wolf standing where he was, still entertaining the ruby eyed male. 

His lips curled slightly into a half-smile, the kind that hinted at both amusement and curiosity. “The gods, you say?” Felmont replied, his voice a smooth, velvety murmur; the hiss of a snake revealed itself beneath his dialect, but nothing of ill intent. With sly mannerisms, the wolf brought himself gliding closer, but he remained at a respectful distance from the lighter wolf, keeping a cautious eye on him. “Quite the awakening I’ve had then.” He spoke, voice wry with something unknown.

Felmont’s gaze flickered toward the surrounding landscape. The overcast sky cast a silvery pallor over the forest, and the towering trees looming like winter sentinels. Beneath his paws, the light snow that scattered the ground cracked, hardened over days of settling. From the overcast, dreary clouds, snow was soon to come. 

“I would hate to be caught in this bleak weather without shelter. Say,” He hummed. “Suppose you could point me in the direction of a den, perhaps even a hole in the ground? I can be out of your fur come clear skies.” He jested, chest puffing out softly as he turned, trying to slowly slink away, but stopping, casting a look to the wolf expectantly. He hoped he would not be wrangled into joining whatever Pack this brute had going on, for that’d be rather unfortunate; he disliked the bounds and ties of loyalty. “Truly, I hate to intrude.”

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The wolf of the earth and the wolf of the mountain stood, watching each other. Gauging each other. Where the earth colored one’s voice was smooth and supple, Stjornuati’s was gravelled and rough. He spoke with an air of easy confidence, and held himself that way, too. Even the approach of the other did not sway the pale wolf to move or give ground. This was his mountain after all, and while the gods may have placed this wolf here, they had sung for the stareater to take the mountain.

He did raise an eyebrow at the request, jawline tilting upwards just slightly. “No.” His answer was swift, his decision easy. “Fjalla is not for wolves to take freely. They give loyalty to the mountain, to this one, or they do not stay.” Which was not a bid to convince him; moreso and explanation to his swift denial.

“Winter comes, wolf of earth. You stay or go?”

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Felmont's vivid eyes locked onto Stjor's intense gaze, a buzzing alive between the two wolves. They stood, two opposing forces, one bound to crack eventually; and Felmont it would be. Stjörnuáti was rugged, wearing a mountain-born confidence, and Felmont’s fur bristled with a building uneasiness. The wolf, who’d tried to slink away only moments ago, to free himself of the Jarl’s fierce stare, paused. His paws sank like anchors into the earth he stood upon, and Felmont could only muster a nervous smile, one that dropped from his face soon after, replaced with a look of steel. It appears I will be going nowhere. 

As Stjor refused his request with an unwavering certainty, Felmont's expression blinked away to be replaced with shock. It flooded into a canal of nerves, and the wolf turned, his tail tucking humbly along his back leg. “I see.” The words fell flat against the growing breeze, drifting forwards with fervent speed. Felmont gave an accepting nod of his fate and began to move forwards, each step of his paw a leap forward into fate. “You say the Gods placed me here for a reason… then I cannot argue with your… Fjalla.” 

Felmont cast a final glance around the region. His eyes trailed the mountain peaks, dusted with snow, and gleaned over the rise and fall of the landscape. Snow dotted with tall evergreen, resilient against the elements. The wolf’s eyes filled with a sense of dread, his lungs constricting as if the air had left them. “I stay.”

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And so it would be. When push came to shove, it seemed that Felmont was not one to test the wilderness out on his own, especially with winter breathing down their necks. Stjörnuáti did not blame him, could not blame any that sought shelter for the season and nothing more, but he would also not allow such brazen use of his family nor his home. The wolf of gilded creams would not care if his actions of turning a wolf away meant their death; it only meant that they were too weak or too stupid to survive.

It seemed Felmont was neither, for the time being.

“No one argues with fjalla. It is mountain.” Stjörnuáti would huff a laugh then, soft and short, before rolling his shoulders. He was not making fun of the wolf, he simply found the statement amusing. Perhaps he had thought Stjörnuáti had spoken a name and not simply the word mountain. “Are you of the North?” He switched to Icelandic again, finding it far easier than continuing the conversation in the common tongue.

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The relief was clear in the dark wolf’s expression, heavy brows typically furrowed now gentler as they lifted above his golden gaze. Said gaze lingered quietly upon the shoulders of the Jarl, watching him with a clear interest; Felmont had never been one for the ties of Pack life. From a young age, the lad had craved adventure, seeking to know the taste of the sea and the feel of the salty wind through his thick mane. Yet, the Jarl’s words planted some small seed of doubt within his mind. Had he truly been placed here, or was it the blabberings of a religious madman? This was yet to be seen, but so far, the golden wolf seemed to have a strong head upon his shoulders. One Felmont could come to respect, perhaps, even admire. 

Embarrassment threatened to coat his cheeks in a heavy flush at the Jarl’s correction. Felmont was not as well versed in the tongue of his ancestors as this brute appeared to be, and it brought heavy shame reeling to life within his gut. But yet, Felmont continued forwards, tail lightly swishing behind his heavy form as he moved to follow after the pale wolf’s pawsteps. "Faðir minn var það, ekki ég.” — My father was, not me. Felmont replied, easily leaning into the conversation. 

The wolf cleared his throat, gaze shifting to look upon the other brute’s face, a cheeky attempt at a warm smile brightening his own maw. "Ef ég á að ganga til liðs við fólkið þitt myndi ég vilja vita meira um það.” — If I am to join your people, I would like to know more of them.

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