OOC: TL;DR, trying something new with my writing and I'm pretty sure I hate it. Sakana has come up the mountain to find herbs for winter and wasn't quite sure if there was a pack here now. Fall seasonal - Solo, happy for him to be kicked down the mountain now.

Sakana's paw hesitated in the air, as if caught between the worlds of knowing and uncertainty. A feeling, a sensation, brushed against the edge of his awareness, like the ghost of a long-lost memory returned. A memory of those statues, their fleeting appearances like shadows that slipped through time's fingers, and then were gone. The feeling lingered at the edges of his thoughts, an enigma that dared him to decipher its riddle. His brow creased, furrowing with worry, the kind that settles deep in the bones and refuses to let go.

And there was the Wife, on the brink of birthing new life, a beacon of hope amidst a ceaseless storm of raids and chaos. Sakana's heart bore the weight of that storm, a shadowed dread, a worry that chewed at the corners of his mind. But duty called, a duty etched in the marrow of his bones, and he found himself pulled towards a mountain that knew his footsteps well. Yet, even in the familiarity of the path, his steps faltered as the scent of other wolves infiltrated the mountain air. An unfamiliar scent that twisted his thoughts, a scent that hinted at something new and strange. A pack? Sprouting from the snow like a wildflower, its roots hidden in the depths of the land? Confusion gripped him momentarily, a perplexing puzzle that made his head spin. Had he missed something? In a world where whispers carried far and wide, how had this slipped by him?

The cold wind shook him from his contemplation, it gripped him, sharp and unyielding, as he climbed into the mountain's embrace. An alpine realm unfurled before him, an ever-changing tapestry that wove the seasons into the fabric of the land. His fur, a simple shade of brown, blended with the warm tones of autumn that brushed the rugged canvas at this low altitude. The scent of pine and earth danced through his senses, and still, the trail persisted, a whisper of questions unanswered. Was he treading where he shouldn't be? With a subtle gesture, he beckoned his avian ally to take flight, to explore what his eyes could not. For in this world, not all those who tread the path of raiders seek only to sow chaos and discord. Sometimes, allies wore the same faces as adversaries.

But the young wolf's purpose was clear. Trespassing wasn't his intention, not when the roots of his quest lay deep in survival's soil. He needed the herbs that only this terrain could yield, herbs that could nurse his pack through winter's unforgiving chill. And so, his journey continued, a dance with the mountainside, each step a rhythm of determination, each footfall a prayer to the land that cradled his steps.

Sakana, the trails of these mountains etched into the sinews of his being, carved his way guided by nothing more than instinct and an insatiable curiosity. The march of time, like a relentless river, had chiseled the contours of the land since his last foray, and everything that should have been the same was inexplicable and barely perceivably... different. Venturing forward, the first snowflakes danced on the breath of the wind, a melancholic waltz that announced winter's inexorable embrace. As he moved further up the mountain, the once-vivid alpine meadows, a tapestry ablaze with nature's hues, now slumbered beneath frost-laden veils, and where the mountain touched the sky, lights danced. Not unusual, no, but not quite right either, not with the sun so high in the sky. Something to squirrel away in the back of his mind for another day...

In the wake of whispers sometimes he thought only he could hear, the young wolf followed trails carved into his memory in the way water cut through a gully to form a stream. He threaded his way through labyrinthine paths that yielded only to those in communion with the land's enigmatic murmurs. The alpine terrain was an ironclad testament to nature's resolve, its rocky bastions and steep ascents demanding unwavering vigilance. Yet, Sakana advanced, his every step a dance of surety amidst uncertainty, his paws finding purchase where others might falter. His heartbeat became a drum, echoing the primal cadence of the earth's heartbeat.

His first destination beckoned—a meadow where blueblossoms had once stretched towards the heavens, petals aglow with the hues of sapphire skies. But now, a hushed stillness prevailed as the flowers surrendered to winter's chill, leaving naught but fragile remnants kissed by frost's tender caress. Through snow's embrace, Sakana's deft paws unearthed roots and bulbs, vessels of vitality cradled in the earth's bosom, awaiting their awakening. Each discovery tucked away carefully, to brace against the oncoming cold front, and whatever else loomed just beyond the horizon that he could not quite put a paw on.

Rising like a wanderer's quest, Sakana ascended to where the mountain's embrace grew tight, the air thinning in communion with the heavens. Here, chamomile patches once swayed like drowsy bards weaving tales of solace to the weary. Now, they lay dormant, their tender blooms yielded to the frost's touch. The boy's determination remained unwavering, as his efforts focused on the gnarled roots—guardians of the chamomile's healing balm. The potential that lay in those roots, of solace for ailing pack members, whispers of nature's grace amidst winter's bitterness was enough for him to persevere, though his toes grew numb with the bitter cold.

Still yet, the journey led him to a sheltered haven, thyme bushes, once a verdant wellspring, cradled their secrets of vitality and warmth. His eyes gleamed as he uncovered patches of the herb, tenacious in their grip on the essence of life beneath the hard, cold earth. With tender reverence, he gathered what few leaves remained that held the promise of comfort, a whispered assurance for the coughs and chills that winter birthed.

As the day waned and shadows stretched long, Sakana bore his purpose as if it were woven into his very bones. Roots, bulbs, and leaves nestled within his satchel, a sacred arsenal to weather winter's bite. As he turned to depart the alpine expanse, a gust of wind carried with it a distant howl—a lament of his kindred resounding through valleys and peaks? or a warning that he had been discovered?

“Speech”

-1041/800-

Erik knows that he's not alone in the Maw, but sometimes it feels that way. There's so much mountain, and so little of him. There are so many things happening here. The land seemed to shift beneath his feet, giving way where he walked. Was that... was it him, or was it just the land? Fuck. Fuck. The crystals in his throat and now there was something wrong with his head too? Bullshit. Maybe it wasn't in his head. Maybe it was real. Unlikely. Pretty unlikely. A passing mention to his father had only left him with more questions than answers. All viking had given him was trust the gods. Did he mean that Erik heard the gods? He didn't seem alarmed... but what did Erik know of reading his father, anyway. Did father hear them too? There was no confirming that Víðarr was even his father. Erik didn't know what to think, for the time being.

But this... wasn't that. Erik knew that it wasn't just his father's pack members on the mountain. A very, very different scent drifting from downwind. His head lifted, hackles coming up along his shoulders. The boy was trying to look far larger than he actually was. Just healing from his run-in with another stranger, Erik was undeterred. If anything, the tidily stitched wound made him look even more menacing. An intense glimmer in his eye, Erik stepped out onto a broad, flat rock overlooking one of the small meadows that dotted this part of the mountain. A bitter breeze ripped through his coat and bit into his sides, pulling at something deep in his chest. It's a longing, a call that he can hear. Were these Víðarr's gods too? Could they see him here, beneath their lights in the sky? Erik couldn't say for certain, and he's not sure he wanted to.

His gaze settled on the brown boy, eyes narrowing. He was a scrawny little thing, surely less of a threat than the pup that had attacked them the other day. A rumbling, menacing growl ripped from Erik's chest. "Who?" The singular word slipped from his jaw, voice raspy and crackling on the stiff northern breeze.

"Speech"

The boy's retreat came to an abrupt halt, halted by a looming figure of childhood nightmares. Eyes aflame like the deepest pits of the earth, with red as vivid as the ancient crystals that adorned his throat. Flames, those fiery dancers, flickered along his ribcage, casting eerie shadows that seemed to reach for the very soul. Sakana had heard his fair share of spine-tingling tales beneath the moon's glow, and if he had to thrust this unearthly child into one of those stories, he'd place him squarely in the role of the hellhound, guardian of the underworld, harbinger of death itself. A lump formed in his throat, and he dared not meet those burning eyes directly. His ears, once perky, now lay flat against his head, a sign of submission. He lowered his chin, baring the vulnerable curve of his throat to the stranger.

Sakana, I'm a healer, or I hope to be..." the young man's voice rang out in the eerie silence that only came at altitude. Sakana's tail inched closer to his belly. He had been a fool to ignore the signs that something had drastically shifted in these lands, and he had been a fool to disregard the ominous warnings that now echoed in his mind. He wasn't sure running would help though.

“Speech”

Erik is a vision, a nightmare, something horrifying. Víðarr is not much better. The child had pinned something, someone down, with his gaze and presence alone. At least he was doing better this time. At least he was more successful this time... hm. Still, it wouldn't do for a child to be intercepting intruders. Couldn't have him getting hurt again, not after what had become of the incident with Strai.

Closing the gap, melting from the shadows behind his son, Víðarr looks down upon this Sakana creature. A chuckle escaped Erik, a snorted laugh, one that causes the shadow to look over his shoulder before looking back upon the boy. The viking king he'd get no answer from his son on just what was so funny, though the child's eyes gleamed all the same. "Tell me, boy, is it common practice for healers to trespass?" Víðarr watched the boy, icy gaze gleaming. He stands tall, head high as he peers down on Sakana.

The boy displays textbook submission, leaving Víðarr wondering about the world he came from. Was he playing with his food? Perhaps. Erik hangs back a bit as his father handles the offending yearling, still burning with curiosity.

"Víðarr"