speak of her over my grave

@Adonis

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The cold was not what jarred her.

The cold comforted her, cradled her in something familiar, soothed the aches she felt bloom beneath her thick wisped fur. She did not bleed and nothing felt outright broken. Yet the bruises that began on hidden skin and underneath would bite like nothing ever had before. It was enough that she stayed here upon the snowy forest floor. Hardly able to catch her breath.

How had she come here?

It felt almost like she had slipped into a comatose state, sweet oblivion, and stirred to new air. New sights. New sounds. All of it should have sent her into a frenzy to immediately seek out a face that she could question.

Oh but she was so tired.

Exhausted with the pain she carried now. Dusted softly by the snow that managed to get in between the trees.

What harm could a little more sleep be? Maybe she'd wake up somewhere familiar again. It was far too easy to let her rose-tinted eyes close with a heavy flutter.

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The battle wounds of yore still tore like thick blades through the shadow’s fur, rending his flesh sliced with fresh wounds that would scar, leaving his frame etched with more scaled skin that told stories of battles yonder. Cast upon foreign lands and surrounded by snow capped mountains equally as foreign, the Witcher had not yet entirely shaken off the confusion that plagued him. Yet, there was a solace in knowing he had at least found some tatters of his family. His wife, his queen; Khione. Her trusted friend and council, Aruna. 

These mountains, this Northfall reminded him of the home he had left behind. Their Kingdom was surely in tatters, what remained picked over by eager Noblemen vying for the empty Thrones. Adonis could only hope that Ludon or Venaday would take what was theirs righteously, in blood and in ice--ensuring the longevity of their families reign. 

He had set out through one of many icy trails that carved through the mountains and the thick evergreen forest below the slopes, vigilant and dutiful in his slow markings through the forest. It had been decided: Adonis and Khione would stitch back together their Kingdom, rebuild Winterhelm from the ground up, and this icy ruin would be their fortress. His tail brushed against trees, leg lifting every other stride to spray his scent against the base of withered trees. Eventually, the wolf stepped out into what was an open clearing, stormy eyes peering across the snow laden grounds. It was there he caught the faint scent of a stranger; she was fragrant of rose and amber, a smell not horrible upon the wolf’s nose. He lingered forwards, squinting against the hazy fog until he saw her collapsed form. Exhausted, vulnerable to the winter’s cruelty. 

Adonis strode forwards and moved to stand above the crumpled wolfess, leaning his head down to shove his warm nose against the back of her neck. His hot breath permeated across her fur and the skin that froze beneath it, before he nipped at her with his teeth, a gentle yet urgent beckon. The wolfess was young, much younger than he. ”You must wake, riñnykeā.” — child. The wolf spoke harshly. “The mountains are not kind. We will find you shelter.”

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Any medic would have told her not to sleep.

Surely she did not have head trauma, but the chance may have been there, no? Battered and bruised to a state that wished for her to sleep. At least she did not bleed out into the cold. That surely would have been a death sentence then and there.

Would it have been?

Warmth swept over her neck — perhaps a cat had come to collect her, to take down the once mighty lady. How could she have blamed anyone for ending her in such a sad state? Such was the way of life in the balance of prey and predator. Sometimes the predator became the prey.

”You must wake, riñnykeā.”

Had her father come to collect her? Impossible, he had been dead for longer than she had known him. Maybe that meant she had died too. Her eyes heavily opened, only she could not see who it was from their positions and the thought of turning her head was enough alone to make her dizzy.

“Nyke kostagon't dīnagon. — I can't move.”

A moment of genuine concern in the tired lull of her voice. She wanted to cry and yet she could not.

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A frown tugged at the edges of the raven wolf's lips. He watched on in a moment of silence as the battered she beneath him uttered the words of defeat, more than ready to lay her head and accept the sweet embrace of death. In another life, Adonis would have left her to perish to the winter's will. In another life, he might have even killed her himself, better to die now than to suffer longer. But this was not that life, not anymore, and the he once more pressed a nose to the nape of the wolfess' fur, urging her to muster what strength she had.

She didn't move, though. Only continued to wither away.

Adonis cursed beneath his breath, bringing visible frost to flurry in swirls from his mouth. The brute of a wolf knelt down briefly, only to wedge his head between her elbow and ribcage and wiggle his way beneath her form. By the way her lithe frame winced, her body knew pain. “Then I shall move you myself.” Words most certain, full of determination. He was a beast of a masculine, stout in both frame and in pride. He found no trouble in whisking the wolfess off through the snow and the fog, carefully carrying her to the warm den he and his mate had claimed for themselves. It was only temporary until they found better lodgings atop the mountainous Northfall.

Black wings blurred in his peripheral vision as Ivori dipped down from above the trees she flew, sapphire eyes widening in surprise. Adonis gave a jerk of his head forwards, a silent signal for her to continue onwards to warn @Khione and @Aruna of the incoming guest. “She will need care.” He barked, an order, and the Raven nodded, taking off in flight towards the den that crested the rocky hill he ascended.

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It was easy, draped over the form of a winter giant.

Each jostle of movement brought a rolling wave of pain. At some point it stopped hurting. Not for healing, not for lack of injury. It had simply become a baseline instead. If all she knew were the aches and the pains of a new existence, then how could she have remembered or recalled anything else?

The walk could have been only minutes or stretched out for even hours — she clung somewhere between sleep and consciousness.

She felt like a coat, draped upon his back like she was the pelt of a great hunt. In these moments she was no more useful than such a thing anyway. Through all of it she could not help but wonder after one thing in particular.

“Skoro syt dohaeragon issa? — Why help me?”

Her voice a weak whisper on the cold breeze.

Perhaps it was pure stupidity to simply ask. The great winter giant could simply slog her off his shoulders, could toss her down a ravine or end her himself. Maybe that was how she knew this was not her father though. Kindness would not have been his first choice with someone as useless as she was in these moments.

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The question came as one the giant hadn't been expecting. Though, it did not catch him off guard. He was ready to answer, and did, inhaling just briefly to allow the frosty air to fill his lungs. He exhaled the words, finite and flowing: ”Nyke emagon daughters hen issa own.” — I have daughters of my own. The brute spoke, thoughts of Adorre and Venaday surfacing. Adorre, his obsidian gem. Memories of her pained him, struck him like a sword skewered through his chest. Venaday, on the other paw, was a tornado of contradictions. The worst of both he and his mate. ”Nyke would daor jaelagon zirȳ naejot botagon such nykeā vējes.” — I would not want them to suffer such a fate.

The wolf did not struggle nor falter under the young wolf's weight, only bolstered himself further, until he reached the entrance of the den where his makeshift group had been staying. Upon stepping inside, there was an immediate warmth, albeit still cold, that embraced the two of them. Adonis only took a few more steps before he was leaning downwards, allowing the wolfess to slowly slip from her seat upon his back and shoulders, huffing quietly through the effort. He took several paces away to allow Vhaenyra her space to rise to her paws if she so chose, only watching quietly, looking about the den for any sign of  Ivori, @Khione, or @Aruna. 

”Skoros iksos aōha brōzi, riñnykeā?” — What is your name, child?

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Khione could feel an itch in the back of her mind. It willed her to move, to plan, to create. She preferred, like her husband, to be in the field with busy hands, working and ever dutiful. Remaining at the bedside felt like the responsibilities of someone more adept to home care and the White Death was not one who could lead nor tolerate such a life. However, their recent trials and tribulations have demanded new tasks of the mated pair. While one scoured the sloping winter landscapes, the other ought to remain in their makeshift den to ensure their new stake remained unchallenged. A shallow sacrifice perhaps, but one that was necessary.

Like the dragonhide cloak he once wore, Adonis returned with something, or someone, draped across his broad backside. Just at first glance, it was evident that this she-wolf was exhausted given her half-drunken daze. She must have recently arrived. From what Khione could deduce about this new world, wolves would arbitrarily awaken here with no rhyme or reason as to why they'd been swept from their homes. She glimpsed at her lover and shared a knowing, cool gaze. 

Another mouth to feed was Khione's initial thought. They'd need to be cautious about how many individuals they'd take under their wing, at least until they were more established and familiar with the area and its food sources. But the Frostfyre name was one that was swollen with pride and dignity. They had a nasty habit of assuming their victories. Loss was never a possibility. However, Khione was no idiot. There was no reason to bite more than they could chew. Her eyes roved the fatigued form of the monochromatic female as her mate lay her unto a soft pile of bedding. She needed their help.

Maybe they could permit one more mouth.

“Kostagon ao iōragon?” — Can you stand? A sweeter wolf may have allowed the stranger a moment to rest, but Khione was aware of the implications of a weak link. 

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The black queen was half asleep when the giant padded forth, claws dragging over cold stone. Slung over his shoulder was a limp body, sides rising and falling with shallow breath. Khione had been more aware than she was, quick at her lover's side with a creased brow. Her words hardly rang in her ears, drawing herself down from the sky to the present.

Compelled by little more than social cues, Aruna lifted with narrow eyes and straightened out, stepping forward to join the two. "What is it?" She prodded, curling to the right to stand side of the couple.

Her nose dropped, inhaling against the wind. A girl, much like blackened cliffs and their snow-capped peaks being gently placed on a soft bed of moss, brought from Elsewhen. "Is she alright?" Aruna muttered, the question directed to Adonis.

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He did not want them to suffer.

Daughters. Plural. For a moment she tried to imagine the scene. A giant's family, tended to and protected. Sheltered by both mountains of stone and mountain of a father. It was a scene she had never been in, but one that comforted her all the same. As if recalling an old memory with cherished faces.

The warmth of the den only added to the illusion of comfort.

“Vhaenyra.”

It was a simple answer.

Yet she laid in the den with thoughts far from simple. The scent of others, the wafting of things unknown to her. Perhaps he shielded his daughters here in this hearth — she continued this illusion, this thought of things to comfort through the slow ebbing pain. A pain she knew now seemed more centralized along her ribs rather than her limbs. At least it was not her spine. That might have been the biggest death sentence of all.

Two women.

“Kostilus. — Perhaps.” To her credit, she tried. Up on her feet before she sat down. The world spun for but a moment — maybe a feat of exhaustion or dehydration, surely not to do with the aching sides. “Nyke istan daor va moriot sīr nākostōbā... — I was not always so weak...” A touch wary now that three sets of eyes laid upon her.

“Nyke kostagon umbagon, return se favors ao se aōhon emagon given issa already. — I can stay, return the favors you and yours have given me already.”

Her gaze drifted to the large man. A life debt was a lofty thing to owe, but she was not willing to not at least try to negotiate her survival.

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An air of relief flooded from the Hilmar at the appearance of his mate and her friend. He offered a nudge of his nose to Khione, a soft touch shared only with her and a respectful dip of his crown to Aruna, before his gaze swept back to the young lady who lay upon their cave floor. 

Is she alright? Aruna asked. Adonis did not answer, for he did not know. Only looked upon the woman with a worried stare, one that spoke what he needed to say: I haven't a clue. 

She found it difficult to move. And as she attempted to stand, it was not long before she was crashing back to her haunches, defeated and bruised. It brought his brows to a furrow, nares twitching with hesitation. Was she broken? Would she just be another mouth to feed? Had he made a mistake? From the glance Khione gave him, he felt she was thinking the same. 

But he could not so easily give up upon this wolf. Call it intuition. 

When she offered her loyalty, Adonis bit back the sigh that would have departed from him. If her wounds prevailed any longer, it would just be better to end her suffering. He simply nodded, looking between Khione and Aruna before he spoke.

”Ao jāhor umbagon, kessa. Regain aōha kustikāne. Ao jāhor repay īlva rūsīr pazavorve.” — You will stay, yes. Regain your strength. You will repay us with loyalty.

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Khione was silent as she'd watch the interaction between the woman and her mate. She was stern, steady, but at the moment, weak. Her limbs alone struggled to hold the weight of her body and she'd collapsed back onto heaving haunches. Khione did not miss the way Adonis' expression screwed into one of speculation and doubt, but he'd already spoken. He trusted his instincts and if he didn't, he wouldn't offer asylum to someone he thought would weigh down their future which hung from a thin, precarious thread. Khione trusted his decision, along with whatever implications they'd bring.

“īlon jāhor maghagon ao havor se arlie nykeēdar. Syt sir, ao rest.” — We will bring you food and fresh water. For now, you rest. She declared. They couldn't leave her in this sorry state: wary, exhausted, fatigued. Vhaenyra would need care in order to raise her back into her prime state and Winterhelm would see that through. 

“Nyke khione. Se vala iksos issa mate, Adonis.” — I am Khione. The man is  my mate, Adonis. At his introduction, she gave a chaste and gentle nudge to the sire's shoulder, and her eyes drifted to the damsel dressed in black and greys, “Se Aruna, īlva paktot ondos.” — And Aruna, our right hand.

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