I see no reason to wake up

Time slipped by without notice, without reverence, without acknowledgement.

Where he had been, he couldn't remember. There were vague memories, hazy, covered in a mind fog that he could not be bothered to sweep away. Flashes of something in the ether, of his brother, of his raven-friend. Stretches of dark, of ice and snow, of battle and blood.

The Halls of the All-Father?

Perhaps.

---

He stood, a feral, unkempt looking thing, plush fur windswept and mottled here and there by scars that he didn't remember receiving, a taste of blood in his mouth that he didn't remember taking. The stain of crimson across his muzzle, the drop that fell to the snow beneath his paws, matched the color of his eyes — fresh enough to drip, old enough to pull at the shortened fur of his face in a just-this-side of uncomfortable manner.

Those same eyes blinked closed and opened, a sharpness to his gaze that had always been present, though not quite as honed. Familiarity stuck like lightning, hard and fast, though it did little to shake him or the stern look that held his countenance. He knew this place, a distant memory pushing through the fog to show him how and why, though more quickly followed.

Ice. A wakening. A fire-spitting dragon. His brother, the warrior. His sister, the poppy. His brother, the envious.

As if the memories called it forth, a breeze pushed across the grotto before him, carrying a scent that finally drew a reaction from the statuesque Northman. It was small, imperceivable to those who weren't watching him closely, a simple flick of an ear, a twitch of his tail, but it was a reaction all the same. It was also a catalyst to his next movement.

His head lifted, a short call seeking her rising and then falling just as quickly. His posture resumed, the same unmoving statue that he had been this entire time.

---

Stjor has simply reappeared, as if it was his first post on Canis! please treat it as such <3 Tagging the mentions! ily all. @"Thalia" @Solpallur @Rökkvi @Valmúa

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Movement drew his gaze, cold and wild like the blizzard-heavy wilds he was born of. The wind died and ears shifted forwards to catch her words, her voice, her attitude. Like she was pulled straight from his memory, she came to him now, her inner fire no less bright, no less magnetic to him than it had been before.

Still, he made no movement, save for the smallest tilt of his head as he thought how to answer. Was there an answer? A better question might have been did he know how to answer her?

Jaws parted, a low and rough gravel to his voice that spoke of its lack of use. “Ég veit ekki.” He was slow to remember that the dragon did not speak his language, and so shook his head instead, trying to recall the words of the common tongue. They were distant, more distant than his memories of the last few months. “Do not know,” he would answer her finally, frustration flickering through him as he struggled with the words.

“This place —” Maroon eyes looked behind her to the caves they had clashed at before, so many moons ago, before they returned to her strong form. “Þín? Yours?”
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He huffed at her comment, hot breath furling in the cold air between them. Tongue swept across his muzzle as he contemplated her words, ultimately leaving them to fall away in the quiet morning. With the sun just beginning to breach the horizon, the two stood seemingly at odds, though they had always been that way in Stjörnuáti's mind. She was of the fire, and he was of the ice. Perhaps that was why they acted like they did to each other, though that did not explain her draw.

A smirk pulled at one side of his now slightly less dirty muzzle, pride glinting in those cold eyes as she proclaimed her status. It suited the untameable creature before him, to lead and claim for herself; he would have been surprised to find her allowing herself to be beneath any other. Even him. Although...

The smirk widened, the impure thought flashing across his mind in response to her question. Never had they come close but not for lack of wanting. The Northman was not impatient, and would sooner wait for the right opportunity to present itself rather than rushing headlong into the fire.

“To see a face familiar,” He ground out finally, coat rustling as the breeze picked up for a moment. The answer was incomplete, however, and while he was feral and savage, Stjörnuáti was no fool. Right now, she was all he had, and while he was strong enough by himself, there was no point in remaining alone. “Shelter. Food.” He knew what he was requesting right then, and knew that she would surely make a show of dominating him. Something he wouldn't necessarily be opposed to, under the right circumstances.
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Gamma. The word meant little to him but the gilded male had enough knowledge and context to figure out what it was that she was saying. A snort, a lash of his tail as he weighed the opportunity before him. She knew him to be no freeloader — he was almost offended at the thought — but she also knew that he was not one to take anything lying down. Not even her bullshit.

“For now,” He answered, cryptic in its intention. Was he implying his stay, his rank, his consumption of their food? Stjörnuáti did not elaborate.

“What does lítill dreki call her clan?” It was the first full sentence he had spoken, the ease of it surprising him though he masked it well. The question, the banter, though spoken in rough tones, was just as familiar as the woman before him was. Perturbed, the man shook the settling snow from his coat before resuming his stoic posture, blinking intelligent eyes at her.
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His lip curled at the name, ears laying back against his skull in distaste. “Why.” He demanded this of her, snorting his derision into existence. “Name heimkur — stupid. Drekahreiðrið better. Dragon's Nest.” Anything other than that.
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His eyes narrowed as she answered so simply. The pair of them had always aimed to dig in beneath the skin of the other and it seemed that, at the very least, had not changed. However he had ended up here, however he had come to stand before her in this moment, things were not so wildly different that Stjörnuáti did not trust it. Rather, some part of him was comforted that her bite remained as sharp as ever.

This did not mean that he wouldn't bite back. No, the drottning — queen was in for the time of her life if she thought he would roll over so easily for her. He did not do so for anyone, not even the fire spitting dragon-woman. This was punctuated with a sharp snip of his teeth to her flank, a familiar movement between the two but no less incendiary than his foreign words. He meant to bother, meant to irritate her, a familiar movement in the face of the uncertain way he had ended up here.
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He saw the movement moments before she went through with it, saw the way her muscles coiled, the way her nails bit into the lightly packed snow. Head turned, the groundfall and dirt peppering his coat with little impact. Of course, he didn't act as if it had little impact, instead surging forward to knock his head against her small flank before his teeth found the middle of her spine and nipped once, not so gentle before he moved again.

This time, it was quick, subtle; a sweep of his tongue beneath her chin. It was the only acknowledgement he give of her status above him in this moment, too perturbed and exhausted to continue on with their foolishness for the time being. Stjörnuáti needed a nap, and some time alone to gather his thoughts.

He attempts to exit
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