a cathedral of glistening hope

Once again, he woke.

Beneath him the ground was cold as ice and he heard the faintest sound of water dripping long before his eyes had even opened. Normally, Solpallur would have fought against the murmuring of wakefulness a moment longer, but it was the biting cold that sought to pull him back into reality. It was that feeling—cold—that bothered him most; a strange thing for a creature destined to walk where few and lesser dared to tread.

When he pulled himself to, he was met with the strangest sense of deja vu. Hadn’t something like this happened before? His head felt as heavy as the stone beneath him; pain bloomed behind his eyes as he caught sight of a sunshaft over his shoulder. He winced, muzzle wrinkling with a hiss of breath. He didn’t remember falling asleep here, but then again he hadn’t the faintest clue that he was on the cusp of realizing how little sense the world made now.

Eventually he mustered the will to greet the day as it were, only to find at the cavern’s opening that the world before him was very much not the one he had ventured into rest from. Bewilderment was the best way to describe his initial reaction, though his face hardly changed from the grimace that had long set there. This wasn’t Mordfjall. Nothing about the terrain beyond gave him a solitary clue as to where he was either.

And the wind from on high blasted him in great heaves; in the shadow of the mountain, kept from the midday sun, he became aware that he was damp. Far more damp than he preferred even on a good day, he was certain he’d been soaked near to the bone but hadn’t a memory of that. His bewilderment lingered, though this time his expression downturned as best as a predator could manage.

So he set off, navigating out of the shade and into the light that was not yet taken by the forest below. Wherever he was, at least the snowpack was decent enough to hold his footing even if the height did little to offer him much in the way of answers. It wasn’t all favorable however and where the stone poked through only proved to hold more ice than snow. Close to the timberline, he was forced to pause and assess the best way to continue a swift descent that didn’t involve injury or death.
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Hibernation. Was this what it was like? He had learned of it, once, long ago. It felt like a lifetime ago, now.

He remembered snow, and clay. Ghosts, emotional and literal. Feelings, boring and taboo. It all blurred together; a smear of colors — too many colors! — across a canvas that had so much life to it already.

Hibernation...

Why did the thought come back to him?

---

The man groaned, shifting in his sleep as he began to rise from its velvet depths. He heaved himself upwards, breaking the thick surface with a deep, lung-filling breath; his eyes opened with great effort, a heaving thing, as if he were picking up a dense and burdensome weight. One long blink, and then another. Another, flushing the sleepsand from his eyes. Vision yet blurry, Mordecai Sharpe squinted against the early afternoon sun.

This... was not home.

---

Hours had passed. The man of sunset strokes had made it to the treeline; he had every intention to stroll into its grasps when he spotted it. A shadow, barely visible. The closer he got, the better he could make out the shadow's form. His voice rang out, hailing the man with a strident bark. Mordecai closed the distance and asked: “Do you know where we are?”

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Preoccupied with his situation, he was midstep when the sound of footfalls reached his ears. That raised paw found its way back down as his gaze swung around to meet the figure who approached—of course it would have been too much for the gods and powers that be to bless him with a familiar face. The warm tones of the stranger almost made him blend in too well with the stone and wooded scenery, but he stood out against the snow like a dark mark set to mar perfection.

Solpallur’s muzzle began to wrinkle at the sight and sound; the wolf’s voice was accented even more than the standard fare he had come into contact with in the past. It was also clearly too much for faith or luck to bestow him with anyone who spoke the same tongue. In spite of his own language barrier, he picked out the bits and pieces that mattered the most: know, where, are.

”Mountain,” he managed, after a very pronounced pause.

The glowering had not left his face. He was suspicious, caught on the edge of the descent and feeling far more than just uncomfortable. His instinct told him to ward the stranger off, but logic toyed and played a siren’s song. What if this wolf knew something he didn’t?
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Mountain. Was he dull? Dense? Mordecai had asked him a question -- Where they were -- and he answered him with one word. The idea that the wolf did not speak his language slithered through his mind but if that was the case, why answer in the same language?

A breath drawn in, Mordecai loosed it soon after, tail twitching lightly behind him. It was a soft tic of irritation, mild annoyance at the very best. But was the annoyance at this man? Or the situation? Perhaps it was both.

“Yes, mountain. But where? This does not look like my home.” He could only be honest, after all. “Are you from here?”

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Once again, he pieced together bits of the foreign tongue. This time it wasn't quite enough to get the full picture, but he picked up on the minute irritation of the other over his dissatisfactory answer. It wouldn't have taken a perceptive creature to note the way that Solpallur's eyes narrowed ever so slight, but whether or not it was in a continued notice of aggravation or a reflection of the static buzzing away in his brain remained a mystery.

So he simply shook his head—no, he wasn't from there. He hadn't the slightest clue where on earth he was, let alone where they could be together. For all the temptation in the world to set his sight back out over what he could still see of the forest, he dared not. Could have been a trap after all, albeit it not the first time he had ever been in such a predicament. More than likely would never be the last of them, lest something went terribly wrong.

So what now then?
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There was no verbal answer, hammering a nail into the idea that the shadow-pelted wolf before him did not speak his language. It was apparent that he knew a little of the common tongue, but enough to carry a conversation? No, it seemed not. But that the man was not from here helped Mordecai's vexation loosen its hold upon him, slipping away into the ether again.

“Right. Well.” His tail swished again as he looked around them, his frown lengthening. “Bollocks.” The man huffed then, frustrated. He doubted the man had seen Lysandra, for he didn't smell of her at all. Not one to ask daft questions, Mordecai instead looked back to the shadow-cloaked creature of another world and this time gave him a look of appraisal.

“Explore together or alone?” A simply worded question for the man of little spoken vocabulary.

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