following a scarlet trail

 

 

Crimson ichor stained the pale snowfall, seeping slowly into its icy heart. Coursing a long path through the winding mountain tops, splatters of blood painted the disturbed snow every ten paces — give or take — leaving a haunting path directly to the collapsed brute. There, a wolf of raven fur lay crumpled against the winter, lifeless at first glance. The rise and fall of his ribcage was hardly visible, painting the portrait of a corpse long since victim to the mountain’s bitter touch. A cloak of black fur lay in tatters just feet away, frosted and buried in the mounds of snowfall that had drifted in frenzied descent to the ground; a raven pulled angrily at its clumped form, a squak of urgency resounding from her long beak. Desperately, the raven attempted to break the cloak free of winter’s might, but try and fail she did, until she could only give up. She spared her collapsed master only a glance, sapphire eyes drowned in dread, before she took to the skies in effortless flight, powerful wings sending her soaring. Her search began, a small scrap of the cloak clenched within her talons. 

Through the desolate mountain peaks, barren and abandoned, the song of the wind crowed, waning a song of agony through the bending alps. It lamented the fate of the fallen wolf, a howl of mourn. But in the quiet of the night, a subtle shift came. It began as a mere twitch of  muscle, a faint quiver in the wounded brute’s stagnant form. From a still mouth came the shuddering of breath, ragged and tenuous, and the faint wheeze; he inhaled the cold, crisp air, a shudder wracking his exhausted form. The wolf, carved from fire, would not relent to the winter’s bitter regime. Not now. Not while the faintest life still clung to his tattered pelt, slick with lifeblood. 

Through painstaking effort, the wolf pushed himself up, a puppet struggling against tangled strings. His vision blurred and bitten by darkness at the edges, the world around him became a distorted panorama of snow and stone. Yet, the instinct to live remained a cornerstone of his heart, a desire that transcended the knives of fate. His paws shoveled through the fresh snowfall that draped in pounds over the compacted snow beneath, sending flurries of dust flying forth into the breeze, only to be carried away, a blur in the descending fog. The black form of the brute shook with a violent aggression, resilient to the cold, yet not to his wounds; deep lacerations that scored his body, hot and bubbling with the threat of infection. A red shimmer coated the fur and matted it around the several open wounds, drenching his scent in that of iron and blood. 

He made it only several feet before staggering, a pained wheeze wracking his frame, and collapsing once more. In a heavy crash, his frame sunk into the snow, reduced to carrion -- life present in his frame only through the shallow breaths that brought his frame rising and falling steadily.

 

---

@Khione 

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The mountains, Northfall, she'd learned it was called, were an endless chain of ice and lifeless alienation. Like an undiscovered planet cursed to the permafrost, she hadn't stumbled across any other lifeforms aside from Aruna. It was a lonely land and Khione had not known a forsaken isolation such as this in many, many moons. In her last life, it seemed that time was a resource that was at a constant dwindle. Between protecting her lands, raising her children, and guiding her peoples, there was plenty to do. But now, as she gazed upon the infinite white, there was nothing but her somber thoughts to keep her entertained. 

Aruna had gone elsewhere and Khione, never a lady to be cooped up, wished to familiarize herself with this new and undiscovered world. Try as she might, her despondency was an ache in her heart that demanded to be felt in full. The ivory damsel feared little, but she'd sooner face death than a lifetime cursed to loneliness. To be devoid of the company of her most dearest loved ones, casted away, forgotten like a memory to the wind. She thought of her sons, her daughter, her husband. Would Lady Luck smile upon her and let her see their faces, but once more?

A sharp exhale escaped her nostrils and her eyes beckoned the dull sky above. Snow fell gently, like stardust descending to her feet. The very sight was almost therapeutic the way it reminded her of home, of Winterhelm. Then, a streak of black amidst the grey. Khione blinked once, twice. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but then there it was again: a flurry of blackened feathers that soared like a comet. A raven, the patron animal of the mighty Vargrheim Kingdom. Could it be? The avian circled above and emitted a shrill caw which reverberated through the wintry canyons. Khione's ear twitched. She'd know that cry anywhere: Ivori. The raven's eyes, as sharp as always, had long spotted the white wolf and she'd descended upon her, wings riding effortlessly along the unforgiving gale of the bitter cold. She landed before Khione and in her beak she held a tattered rag as black as night. Khione didn't need to heed its scent for the mere sight of Ivori alone could only mean one thing— he was here. Blood flooded her senses, filling her vessels with a sudden vigor that wasn't there before. A heavy, devastating perfume of bitter coal and balsamic fir, the scent she buried, drowned, herself in every sleepless night. The man who put the stars in her sky, the man who worshipped her very existence, and whispered her name like a dying oath. 

“Take me to him.” A demand vacant of any warmth, but one that roared with an explosive, desperate flame. Ivori squawked, brandishing her wings once more and taking flight. Khione lunged forward, parting the snows to follow the raven's path. She'd led her over hills, down precarious crags, and icy bluffs. It didn't matter, she'd overcome Heaven and Hell to find her rightful place beside him. Finally, Ivori settled upon a snowy flatland beside a crumpled pile of ebony shadow. Khione's paws would skitter to a stop before it with her chest heaving in haggard breaths. There he lay, a battered, abused body adorned in crimson lace. 

She fell to his side, burying her face into the heavy crook of his neck. There, a pulse, however weak and thready. She could feel the weight of the Earth being gingerly lifted from her shoulders, but they weren't out of the woods, not yet. He'd been reduced to a trembling corpse, helpless to the cold. Khione scanned the environment— she wouldn't find herbal remedies out here, she was far from the cavernous shelter she'd found with Aruna, and she wouldn't be able to carry the masculine without exhausting herself. All she could do was lie with him, offering all warmth she'd have to offer, and wait. 

“Issa jorrāelagon, nyke kesīr...” — My love, I am here...

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In and out of consciousness, the brute waned. His vision was a blurry haze, dotted with ink, that wavered between clarity and nothingness. The mountains that shadowed his frame had become large, mocking sentinels that laughed in the wolf’s face; a jarring noise lacking reality. Northfall had become a surreal dreamscape that refused to coalesce into coherence, spurring Adonis into a coughing fit with each blink of his eyes. To breathe took monumental effort, each rise and fall of his sides exploding with gut wrenching agony, a pain that lit every nerve he possessed on fire. 

But through the haze, he heard the flutter of wings, and sensed the approaching presence of the raven. It took all that he could to muster the strength to lift his head, and even then, it was not enough. The brute managed to gaze momentarily upon Ivori; her eyes, once beady, now bright with the fire of sapphires. A whine resonated from the brute, a sound so foreign that it caused the raven to flinch within her feathers. Adonis tried to focus, to lift his head, but his efforts were in vain once more, and he could only manage a feeble twitch of his ear.

Then, there she was, a vision of pale elegance, but now tarnished by something darker. The weight of grief hung heavily over her fur, her silver eyes wrought with the plague of sorrow. Khione's chest heaved with her own exhaustion, her breaths ragged, and yet she looked as radiant as the first day Adonis had laid eyes upon her.  Her presence, her scent, cold like the winter’s he’d always loved, was stabilizing. 

He felt her bury her face into the crook of his neck, her warmth seeping into his chilled fur. It was a sensation that grounded him. His nose, meek, pressed to the woman’s forehead, and the wolf inhaled her scent. Just as I remember. Khione.  “Khione…” From his voice, her name fell like the stars from the sky. Shattering into a million pieces and yet nothing. Adonis inhaled, a ragged noise that bubbled within his throat, desperate to speak more. As if he would never be able to again. Not to her, not to his love. His queen. 

“I do not.. remember.” A wheeze, pained and gurgled. “But I know…” The air practically left his lungs. “I am dying.” 

An acceptance of fate.

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She'd seen the great Witcher of Winterhelm move the mountains, drown the deserts, and wither the seas. He was a beacon of despair and hope, the giver and thief of life and death itself. And the keeper of her heart. Even now, as his breaths lay ragged and wheezing with crimson rivers staining his raven's black pelt, his grip on her could not be tighter. She felt her heart squeeze, pained and pleading, that her great maker would not be so pitifully undone. To die in the snow in her arms, in a land they did not know. The very notion of such an unworthy death, even at his mention, set ablaze a flame that smoldered with indignation and proud refusal. It was blasphemous. Khione could not, would not, stifle the growl which dragged across her throat like knives on steel.

“No.” Firm, cold, slated in frost, “Winterhelm would sooner fall than for you to die here.” What patience and kindness possessed her moments before seemed to be whisked away by an unforeseen winter gale. Adonis' words had shaken something within her. She would not let him accept such a pathetic fate so easily. Khione suddenly pulled herself to her paws, nudging her snout beneath his underarm and shouldering her body beneath his. She grunted with exertion and shifted his hefty body to leverage it atop her own. The white dame was not made for strength, with her lean build and slender legs, she was crafted for flight and agility. To evade, disappear, and strike. But now, she called upon every coil and fiber of her muscles to lift her mate from his snowy grave and to carry him home. Wherever the hell home was now. 

And so, she began her trek with the weight of her world upon her back.

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He stifled a seething groan of agony as the woman squeezed her body beneath his mass. As she managed to wheel the wolf upwards, supported by her lean strength, he hung silently, blurred vision hazy as the trees melded together. She walked, walked, walked through the deep know, resilient despite the hefty weight of his comatose frame atop her back. Limp, he dragged, staggering every so often as his remaining legs that pressed to the cool snow laden ground moved, struggling to lift and step despite every fiber of his body ushering him to. 

This was not his end, it could not be. This was the death of a weakling, of scum beneath his paws. He would die a dragon hunter's death, not that of a dragon's prey. 

“No...” The word fell like rusted anchors to a sea floor, heavy despite the whisper it was conveyed within. “I will walk.” His voice, usually filled with strength and swollen with pride, was but a dying rasp. He would not be carried by his Queen, a burden upon her shoulders--he would walk. Carry himself, be his own burden. Carefully, painfully, he unwrapped himself from her and all but nearly collapsed once more to the mountainous floor. But he did not, catching himself with a seething hiss and pushing himself upright to his large paws. He towered still, a fearsome fight to behold. He heard the reassuring bat of wings to his right and glared quietly over his shoulder, watching as Ivori came to rest upon his large mane, resuming her rightful place upon the perch of his shoulders.

He would live another day.

Though he forced himself to walk on his own, he still leaned carefully into his mate's side, relying on her to guide him through the fog and winter.

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Khione was no stranger to labor, despite what her lofty title may otherwise suggest, but she'd known exertion. She'd known what it meant to have one's body beaten, battered, and bruised to the point it threatened to undo its very fibers. To have every damned muscle scream and beg for sweet release, or better, to plead for death than to keep going. Her sorry excuse of a father made sure of that. So that's why she prevailed over the weight of her beloved paired with the unforgiving gust of the winter storms. The deep, thickened layers of biting snow that nipped at her heels and seemed to only exist to make her trek all the more difficult. Billows of clouds puffed from her nostrils with every grunt and sigh, that is until he spoke. His breath was like a sword into the silence, but a warm candle to her heart.

He slipped from her shoulders, trembling as he found his footing once more against the sleet. She only watched on in a knowing quiet. Khione knew her mate well. He was a fortress forged from onyx and steel, brined in iron, and bound by the blood of champions and kings. He'd found his pride, driven by a carnal instinct known only to the devastating bloodline that was the Frostfyre name. It was like watching a god reclaim his rightful place amongst the mighty. Still, he looked to her for guidance, one that she would so loyally provide.

“Come, my heart.” She said, pleased that the dragon slayer had seemed to come to his senses. A quiet pause filled the howling air as the pair continued onwards. Thoughts of Winterhelm and the future the Frostfyre name now swirled within her mind. She wished to speak of what would come next, of her visions to rebuild their kingdom from the ground up. Brick by brick, how she, they, would lay the groundwork for a pack whose legacy would echo well into the future long after the names Khione and Adonis were nothing but legends to the wind. But now was not the time. First, she'd get her mate to safety. He'd rest, recover, and soon, all of these lands would know and heed the name Frostfyre.

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