A bitter wind blows, biting deep into the roaming wolf’s bones. The cold settles into every fiber of her being, calling for her to stop and rest. But the lone wolf knows that, if she gives into the small voice, she will not get back up. So, Wight continues to wander the desolate landscape, the towering cathedral of ice that some might call beautiful only serving to make the lost woman feel even more alone. Behind this icy building, the sea laps at the ice, pounding out a depressing rhythm that starts to tug at buried memories. White tipped paws stop their slow, ambling pace across the snow, silver-mismatched eyes coming to rest on the churning waves of the sea. The wind dies down and, for a moment, she is still.

Then the wind picks up, whipping snow into her colorful coat and bringing with it the screams. Wight sucks in breath as her mind returns home to an island now reclaimed by the ocean. Ears twitch as the sounds of paws pounding at frantic paces and screams of fear mixed with sobs of those too weak to run pound relentlessly into the still wolf. For a long moment, duel-toned eyes are glazed as the memories threaten to overtake her. However, the red masked woman does not allow the dark memories to pull her down and instead gives her skull a head shake to dispel the sounds of the dead wolves.

Casting her gaze around, Wight finds no signs life in this forsaken land and the rumble of her hungry stomach pulls her back to more pressing concerns. With a heavy sigh, the space cloaked wolf places the sea to her back and walks on.


"Wight Baade"

The days had only been getting hotter and sleepier, and Viðarr had grown sick of it. Really quite sick to his stomach, and he'd thrown up his afternoon meal the day before. Shit. All of it was shit, and the fucking summer... well, it was at its height. Really, he should have known better than to be trying to push himself through it. That, and he'd been much farther south than he should have been... okay so maybe it was Viðarr's own damn fault, but he wasn't going to take ownership of that fact. Too hard headed. Too stubborn. If Sanngriðr had found out, she would have smacked him. The shadow would have deserved it too. Heat exhaustion.

Was that the reason that he started wandering north? Viðarr cannot remain idle, so he seeks refuge from the heat. Pulling himself northwards, and then farther. Farther than he's been yet, since arriving here. The farther he goes, the more he relaxes. Though the landscape was inhospitable at best, he's able to breathe easier. He feels better. More himself. It reminds him of the home they left behind, something strange running clear through his veins. Strange and wonderful. As the landscape turns to snow, Viðarr breaks into a run. For the first time since leaving home, he can make use of his broad, strong paws. Like snowshoes, but for feet all the time-- yes here, he's confident. Here, Viðarr feels as if he makes sense.

What catches his eye, though, is something that doesn't. Something that doesn't make sense, not all the way out here. A creature wrapped in the heavens themselves... though Viðarr had seen many loudly colored wolves afoot, it didn't seem to be on them to be this far north. They hardly ventured as far as the Trygg camp in the woods. The shadow calls out long before he reaches the stranger, moving easily through the snow as it blusters. Were they alright? They had to be lost, it was the only explanation. Viðarr doesn't bother masking his concern as he draws near.

"Viðarr"

Wight moves through the snow, head bowed in concentration as she works on putting one paw in front of the other. A sound catches her ear, someone calling out to her, and it has the red masked woman lifting head. Surprise crosses her features as she sees a shadowy form bounding toward her. Red hued eyebrows shoot up as she stops her forward progress, opting to watch the ink and silver wolf’s effortless trek through the snow. A snort of amusement (and a little bit of jealousy) can be heard as the dark shadow approaches, their concern written plainly on their features. Silver duel-toned eyes inspect the wolf, a small smile appearing as she notice’s their thick coat and broad paws seemingly made for these conditions.

Wight was born on an island that was more dreary rainy days than snow covered and, while she can handle some cold, the constant, icy wind has left her chilled. As the wolf stops near her, she longs to wrap herself in their coat. Shaking the silly thought from her head, the space hued woman dips her head in a respectable bow and says, “Well, hello there. Didn’t think there was anyone else who lives in this icy land. Nice to see a friendly face.” She offers another small smile, eyes still holding some wary reserve in their depths. But, if the wolf made for snow wanted to attack her, it probably could have done it without drawing attention to itself.

Stomach rumbles its empty displeasure and Wight releases a deep sigh, looking at the shadow cloaked wolf as she weighs her options. Giving a small nod, more to herself then the inky wolf, she says, “My name’s Wight. What is this place?” Gesturing a white-tipped paw at their surroundings, she asks for the name of this hellish cold place all while she eyes the thick coat of the wolf. The sharp wind gust has her shorter frame shaking and she wonders if the wolf would notice if she sidled up to them and tried to steal some of their warmth. Yeah, they probably would… but would they care? That is the real question.


"Wight Baade"

Viðarr thinks of how Kiela had spoken of this place, and his heart warms amidst the cold. Gods, how she'd been absolutely reverent. Now, with it spread before him as it was, Viðarr could see why. It's beautiful, and it reminds him of the home that they'd left behind. There's enough of that familiarity to bring a glimmer of a smile to his eyes, just enough to show that there really was an emotion in there somewhere. Somewhere. As he draws closer, he can tell that the stranger is a woman, one ill-suited for the weather up here.

She bowed her head when she spoke, and he offered a polite enough smile. Manners were hard, having been so many places in so little time. Still, Viðarr was becoming more used to it. "I live in the woods, just south of here. Less ice," there was a bit of humor in his tone, but she was clearly cold. For now, the shadow would push his jokes aside. There needed to be concern-- it didn't seem she was as well suited for the cold, and there was no telling how long she'd been on her own.

"Viðarr Trygg," he introduced. Wight, she was called. Carefully, he peered at her as the wind kicked up. He stepped to the side from which the wind blew, making to take the brunt of the impact and at least some of the bitterness from it. "Ruins, of sorts. I don't know their names." The shadow would ask Kiela when he saw her next, maybe she knew. As the wind kicked up around them, Viðarr took a deep breath in. The air stung his lungs. It made him feel alive. Gods it was wonderful... though by her posture, he could guess that Wight didn't feel the same way.

"Come, we take you out of the cold?" The question wasn't quite as eloquent as anyone who actually spoke the common tongue, but it was good enough. An offer, a question, that was maybe phrased like a directive. Ah, good enough. Viðarr could only hope that he came off as non-threateningly as he tried.

"Viðarr"

The shadow speaks and the woman’s eyebrows shoot up at the thick accent that hangs on every syllable. He speaks of less ice and Wight cracks an amused smirk, asking, “Is there such a place? All I have seen since I got here is snow and… more snow. Oh yeah and… even more snow.” She huffs out a chuckle, shuffling cold paws as she tries to lighten the mood, despite how cold she feels. He gives his name and she smiles, then he steps into the path of the wind and she instinctively takes a step toward his shadowy form in an attempt to keep most of the wind away from her. Viðarr offers to get her out of the snow and Wight’s brow furrows in worry. Duel-toned eyes glance back at the water and she hesitates to leave… until another, stronger gust of wind kicks up.

Puffing out a shallow breath, smaller frame shaking slightly, Wight turns her head back to look at Viðarr and gives him a wordless nod, unable to trust her voice. She has waited here for months, waiting for anymore of her family to washup like she had. It has been a long time but the nebula cloaked wolf had refused to give up hope, only straying further south to catch prey and find a warm place to sleep when she needed it. It feels wrong to leave this place; a piece of Wight feels like she abandoning her family. Yet… it has been several months since she washed up and there has been no signs of any other survivors. As she prepares to go with Viðarr, Wight sends up a silent prayer that her family’s souls find rest.

Another gust of the bitter wind and Wight shakes out some of the snow that clings to her starry coat. Sad eyes look to the shadow wolf as she asks, “Where are we going?” Her chest tightens as the duo start to walk away from the only place Wight has known for the past eight months.


"Wight Baade"

Ah, the eyebrows. He sees them from Wight, but smiles as he does. A chuckle rings like brass from his throat. "Snow soon, summer now." There's a bit of a skip in the shadow's step, as there often is with a pretty girl nearby. Still, her worry catches him off guard. Admittedly, Viðarr is poor with questions. Maybe one of his siblings would have something to say about it when they sat around for dinner. Ooo-- dinner. Actually that sounded good. The shadow's head is filled with excitement about the promise of seal when they got to camp.

The shadow steps carefully into her personal space. If she wanted to rebuke him for it, that was fine. If she wanted to dodge him, she had time. Still, he's better outfitted for this, and it couldn't be fun being out here as an icicle. "How long is it?" How long ago was it that she'd come? If all she'd seen was snow and ice... well, okay, wait that wasn't much of a marker. At this point, Viðarr realized that there was only snow here. Snow he could visit whenever he wanted-- ideal. He could visit whenever he liked, but it didn't come with the caveat that there'd be no prey.

"Home," Viðarr spoke softly, trying the word out on his tongue. It was the first time he'd called it home aloud. Still, it felt right. "We will have dinner with my family, and sit at the fire. Maybe you will even thaw out." The words were carefully chosen, maybe a bit stilted. Still, they were the truth-- they could all sit by the fire and share a meal. Viðarr would, for now, withhold the warning that his sister would drag any slightly even slightly interested stranger into a game of hnefatafl.

"Viðarr"

The freezing wolf’s eyes dance with mirth as the shadow speaks, a chuckle working its way past her cold lips. They move together, Viðarr with a skip in his step while Wight’s movements seem slightly… stiffer. Maybe she has stayed in the cold snow for too long this time but… she had to stay, she had wait for her family. The shadow moves into her personal bubble and Wight accepts his presence gratefully, even going so far as to step into his side… if he allows it. A content sigh passes her lips as the sting is taken out from the cold and she offer the man a warm smile. Viðarr’s question leaves her speechless, brows furrowing as she tries to remember exactly how long she has been here. Was it seven months? Nine? A whole year? Giving a small shake of her skull, Wight says, “It has been several months. Maybe eight or nine. I have stayed close to this place hoping that my family would wash up like I had. I… guess I’m last one.”

Starry shoulders shrug as her lips pull down in a frown, a sad sigh passing her dark lips. Her question on where they are going is answered with a simple word, ‘Home’. The raw wound on her heart tugs painfully, threatening to split open once more. Silvery eyes look up to Viðarr, seeing the pride the word brings to inky wolf, Wight offers him a happy smile, the joy not quite reaching her eyes. She is happy for him but thoughts of her own lost family weigh her down. Then, Viðarr speaks of food and family, sitting around a fire and thawing her out, which causes her smile to grow. Giving a small chuckle, Wight says, “Well Viðarr, you had me at food. Let’s go! Hopefully I’m not a snowwolf by the time we get there.” Tossing the shadow a wink, the starry cloaked wolf settles into a steady pace next to him, the thought of food and a fire giving the frozen woman the energy she needs to keep going.

"Wight Baade"