As the fight ended, Astraios glanced over at his companion again. Listening as she joked about preference in fighting with an axe. She seemed a very upbeat wolf, even in the face of his stony silence. He thought of the materials and bits he had been painstakingly assembling over the last few weeks. Discarded metals, and pieces of obsidian, among other things.

“I know a little crafting, perhaps we could make one?” He said, the words pulling free from him reluctantly. There was a strategy to his words. He knew he needed to start making alliances, and it was rare for him to find an adult he didn’t immediately rub the wrong way. There would be a price to the axe, she just didn’t know it yet.

"Speech"

Yes, yes, the boy seemed grouchy, but Bylgja did not care. She was of the mind that each day was, in itself, a gift-- and thus, each day was meant to be lived to its fullest. Living to her fullest meant befriending the boy, or trying to. It meant meeting his challenge with a pleased sound and a combative lurch. It meant exerting herself to her utmost. He spoke. Bylgja cocked her head and wagged her tail, again. "You would do this for me? I can help you craft one for yourself as well, if you'd like. I crafted my own blades, back home." When she speaks, it is in Norse, and it is with a warmth that sears up her toes. Bylgja thinks fondly of home; despite the hellscape and wildness of it, the land was home. She missed it. Sure, it was a place both bloody and brutal, but it... well. That was the way of home. She knew nothing else. Her ears twitched. "What is your name? I am Bylgja Hausakljúfr." It means skull-cleaver. Given her look, it is... hardly an exaggeration. "Bylgja"

note: Bylgja is speaking in Norse unless otherwise specified.

His expression didn’t change as the wolf hit on a sore point. He paused again, and then said “I have a blade already” He just did not know when he would ever see it again. When the fjándi deemed him deserving of it, he supposed. The dagger had belonged to his mother, and had been his right up until the moment Vidarr had confiscated it. Thrall’s did not carry blades.

“I Will, det blir en skuld” He said, and then decided to expand upon it. She might not accept the deal if she thought it was open ended. “I will need someone to speak on my behalf, at the pack’s summit.” Delphi had already offered herself, but Vidarr had told him children were not permitted to speak.

“Astraios, Strai.” He told her, as he led her back to the small hole-in-the-wall he was currently calling home. “Are there pieces here that would serve as your axe’s head?” He asked, pointing to his collection.


"Speech"

Bylgja eyes the boy with a curious sort of expression, then. He has a blade already, then? "Is your blade blue? Like your face-blades?" She does not know the word for them. She does not ask him why he has no blade. That is his business. His blade being missing is ... his own burden to bear. She herself mourns her axe. He gives her his end of the bargain. Bylgja nods, once, then eyes him a bit more critically. Not... rudely, but she does walk a circle around the boy, taking him in. "I will speak for you. What is it you want me to say?" Now, with his request, she understood his position. A Thrall, he must be. But Bylgja supposed that if Strai wanted her to speak for him, it meant he was desperate. Meant he was looking for something that he could not find otherwise. "I take your honor onto my shoulders when I do." If she spoke for him, she would be swearing by him. Bylgja wanted to be sure. When the boy gestured to his collection, Bylgja peered over it. She reached, and placed a claw atop a piece of metal-- it looked folded-over, colorful, marbled. It looked as if it could be shined to a beautiful color, and she could put runes upon it and -- "This one. It suits me well, I think." "Bylgja"

Face-blades? That was oddly complimentary, he looked over at her again, studying her expression. Given a moment to look at her, he realised the odd markings of her face could almost be considered similar to his own. After that realisation, he found himself finding pieces of his mother in her markings, and was forced to look away. At least her personality was nothing like the one who had whelped him. “It is” He agreed

When she began to circle around him, his attention was drawn back to her. Eyeing her wearily, wondering if she took offence to his deal. So it came as some surprise when she agreed. He met her eyes then, and there was a challenge in them. With her agreement, he allowed himself to be daring. ”Att jag är värdig” How would he go about proving his honor to her?

He moved within reach of the metal as she pointed to it, and dragged it closer to himself. Next, he selected a piece of dark wood, and grabbed a sharpened piece of obsidian. Without his dagger, it would have to do. He sat down, and started work on shaping the handle. “If you want to make any modifications to the metal before I attach it, feel free to do so.” He said, knowing he would feel less out of place if she was busy as well.


"Speech"

He is daring! She barks a laugh, and it is one of delight. Ah! He is a bold boy, and Bylgja finds her tail wagging slightly. She cannot help it. A bit of boldness never hurt, and the boy could fight. She clicked her teeth a bit decisively and tilted her head. Just a little. Just a little, so that she could regard Astraios. She wanted, in part, to ask him why he had been caught and made Thrall, but that seemed, even to her, more personal than he would be comfortable with. So she came up with a better idea, one that struck her true. "You fight good! I have seen this with my eyes. I know it is true. But you will hunt with me too, then? And we will practice together." Her voice is confident, but there is a trust there that is... earnest. Earnest like the dirt under her claws. "You and I work together, Astraios, and when the summit comes, I speak for you. You are worthy, and daring. But I want to speak more! Worthy and daring is one thing. But the King may want more than that." She wants more than that, certainly. But her words do not come unkindly. They come, instead, with promise. "I would speak already, for this kindness and daring. But... I would speak better, so I could grant you freedom." Bylgja may be asking much, but she does not seem to notice. Or maybe she does, and just doesn't care about this. She will be speaking before the pack, after all. She ... must know what to speak about. He gave permission for her to augment the metal, and Bylgja dragged it close, grasping another piece of obsidian. Carefully, she began to carve runes into the metal. Each chip-away was done with care, and despite her brutish nature and her boiling energy, each stroke showed her expertise at the task. This was a work of pride. She took her time with it, and did not speak-- which may have been strange, perhaps, for someone so bold and loud as she. The silence broke: "Tell me, Astraios. Have you any dyes or powders, with which I can dye my runes?" She sweeps away slight dust with a paw. The runes themselves are... expertly laid, and they say: BYLGJA'S SONG-MAKER. "Bylgja"

Her laugh sounded promising, but the weariness never left his eyes. He wasn’t entirely sure why he had chosen Bylgja to place this duty in. By reaching out to her in this way, he was displaying a point of weakness. Giving her a power over him, as he told her of something he needed. There were many ways she could turn it against him.

She placed conditions around her offer, and he listened carefully. He couldn’t find any fault with them, and he may even learn something by hunting with her. “I can agree to this,” He said. He was something of a recluse, and it would force him to interact with her more. But she did not seem so terrible a wolf to speak to. He knew he should probably thank her, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to say the words. Too much anger at having his freedom stolen, his actions dictated. He was surprised she didn’t ask why he was a Thrall, since that knowledge may well change her approach. But if she wasn’t going to ask, he wouldn’t volunteer it.

“Strai,” He corrected her absently. “I don’t, I’m not familiar with dyes” He said, glancing up from his carving for a moment. He’d needed to learn, and it certainly hadn’t been a priority of his mothers.


"Speech"

Bylgja saw his expression. Tired. Nervous. She understood. If he was a Thrall, truly, he was likely used to a hard life, one way or the other. Bylgja was not a woman of sentimentality, really, but the youth deserved to live. He deserved to feel the warmth of life. The way it felt to have the blood truly roaring.

"Good!" He agreed to her terms, and Bylgja nodded once. "I will have you help me find healing herbs as well." She stretched out her forelimbs. It was a simple request, but it made sense-- the woman was heavily tattooed, which indicated she was at least passingly aware with the healing arts, or the arts of scarification. "AH! Strai. I misunderstood, earlier." It is not... an apology. Not directly, just as he did not thank her. But she does acknowledge him, nonetheless. "... would you like to learn dyes, Strai? I will grind them into my axe later." Here, she glances at him again, and her ears are swiveled keenly forward. "You can also dye your fur, if you wanted." She wouldn't bore him with ramblings about color and fashion, but... Bylgja clearly appreciated it.

"Bylgja"

Strai sighed as her deal spilled over to more things, including herb hunting. Not something he had any knowledge of, and he knew he certainly wouldn’t appreciate his inadequacies rubbed into his muzzle. As it surely would once she realised just now naive he was to the healing arts.

He squinted at her when she spoke of misunderstanding, wondering what exactly had led her to believe he would know anything about dyes? He glanced at her paw when she raised it, and he realised for the first time that the brighter colors in her coat weren’t markings at all. He hadn’t realised such a thing was even possible. She had decorated herself, as one might decorate their favourite blade? “If you're finished with the metal, I’ll attach it to the handle now” He said, putting the piece of obsidian down. There was a snug indent the metal could fit into, and a flat band of metal he would wrap around it, and hammer into place.

“It seems…” He struggled a moment, knowing he wasn’t going to be tactical about this, and then gave up and said it anyway. “...Frivolous. He knew exactly what his mother would have said about such things. She had been practical to a fault, and harder than a viking winter.


"Speech"

The boy sighed as she requested his assistance with herbs, and she cast him a snaggly little smile. Her tail thumped, twice. "Think of the herbs as guarding your throat against the future's teeth." He's a defensive fellow, Astraios, so Bylgja tries to parlay her thought in a way that he may take to a bit quicker -- or at least find less sigh-inducing. "It is better to learn now, before you need them." Because he will. Of course he will. They are a pack of fighters, warriors, hunters. The boy will need them when he is freed. And he will be freed. Bylgja will do her best to see to it. She slid the metal across to him, though. Her eyes glittered. Delight. It was unashamed. Unrepentant. The thought of the axe made her chest swell, full, bursting. Joy rippled up her spine, down to her feet. Her tail flicked. Wagged. "There." It is all she says. It is all she needs to say. Bylgja does not move to oversee him; she trusts that he can oversee himself. There is, already, a sign of the freedom he will have while keeping her company. "Ah? Frivolous?" Bylgja cocked her head to one side. Curious. Not... mad. Just... curious. "I am a weapon. We are all weapons. We made of bone and strength and muscle! We decorate our blades. My home, we decorated ourselves. These on my forehead: they say that I help defend my home against a great threat. On my side-- this red wolf-- is when I get my first weapon. I was a pup when I got that one." She didn't sound stern, or mad, just... well. Frankly, she sounded enthusiastic. "We are living. Why should we not paint ourselves?" It is not... a challenge. It is a hypothetical. Bylgja does not appear at all upset by his lack of tact. "Bylgja"

It would probably do him no good to tell her he would trust Delphi’s assessment on herbs before his own. It was clear she had it in her head for them to work together in many aspects. Some he might enjoy, others he would grit his teeth and endure. He knew how to survive, and he would survive her. By the end of it, he may become a free wolf.

When she passed the metal over to him, he fitted it in place. They would need to hone an edge to the axe, of course. But that would come after. He checked the fitting of the metal, rocking it back and forth before wrapping the metal sheet over it. He pinched it tight, and grabbed some obsidian, and began hammering the metal to fit snugly into shape.

He found her easy delight to be a strange thing. In fact, he was almost weary of it. He was accustomed to reading the moods of his mother to know when a storm was brewing, and when he would be in danger. She only seemed to have one setting - happy. He honestly didn’t know what to do with it, and wondered what darkness hid beneath her happy demeanour.

“They tell a story?” His tone was intriguing, despite himself, and he guarded it immediately, ducking his head to hide his interest. His mothers words left his muzzle, learned and recited. “It’s dangerous to be frivolous. The more you have, the more that can be taken away. The more you can be distracted, the more advantages an enemy has over you.”

"Speech"

She watched him fit the axe; as he did, she moved to help him by bracing the handle. This would make it easier. It, too, would prove something-- she did not scold him, nor did she instruct him. Instead, Bylgja just... helped the kid. He hid his interest, but Bylgja didn't pay that much mind at all. Let him hide it if he had to. She knew not all came from such places. Not every wolf had grown up in a family like hers, where each day was a blessing, where each day held such ... brutal death on the horizon. She thought, briefly, of her uncle, who had shown her how to craft a handle, and how he had died on the ocean, split apart by some horrible flesh amalgamate. Bylgja reflected on those she had lost. Brothers, sisters, friends. She'd seen some of them become twisted, horrible creatures. Infected. Changed.

Her eyes were... not quiet, per se. That delighted intensity still lingered, but she appeared more than ready to teach the boy, to talk to him. "They do tell a story. Where I come from--" And here was her first caution, and it was not because of Strai. Rather, it was because of her own... well, her hesitance. She licked at her fangs and looked to the side, for a moment, her ears flicking. It was... a lot to tell a child, but he was not so soft. She supposed it wouldn't hurt. So she continued. "-- there are monsters. Monsters of flesh and bone. Each day, we know we may die. Yes? So then we tell our stories on our skin. So if the monsters take us, we are still us." Her head dips. "We tell our stories on our skin so that we know, too, that we are... ourselves. The monsters cannot imitate the scars. Just the shape." It probably was going over his head.

But he had asked, and she told.

It was her way.

Bylgja shook her head. "If they take what I have, I take it back with my teeth and my claws and my rage. And I do the same for my shield-kin. I do not fear my things being taken. I can always get my things back. Objects... objects are -- objects. Is easier to live with them, yes. But what matters is the flesh. The blood. So why not live with joy? With things?" Another semi-hypothetical.

"Bylgja"

Astraios didn’t immediately react as she began to speak of them telling a story, but his blows were slower, more distracted as he listened. He didn’t even mind that she was propping the handle, as if he was too weak to do it alone. His attention was on her as she spoke. She spoke of monsters that took people, and stories that outlived them. It sounded fanciful, but he wondered what it would be like to be a part of such a thing. Where your story mattered, where you could paint a tale and be applauded for it.

Loss did not hold much power over him. His own mother had taken the lives of his siblings. They are weak, they will slow us down. He had learned early the importance of strength. He had helped his mother take lives, as well. He wondered if his family would be akin to the monsters she spoke of.

“What were these monsters like? How did they take you?” She did not seem to care that he was interested in her story, so he let himself ask. Let himself be bold, and curious.


"Speech"

His attention changed. Bylgja felt a distinct shock of pleasant surprise at the realization. That was... perfect. Good. Let him listen. Let him learn. Her world was one of breaking things, but-- she wanted to talk about it, she found. And so she did. A soft inhale, before she started talking again. "We call it Ragnarok. We do not know how it started. Only that we must bear it, and fight it. It is all I knew, the monsters. They come in the night, in the day." Her paw tapped down, idly. Her tail thumped. One. Two. Three. "The dead rise. There are creatures -- hive things. They come to the dead. They raise them in horrible, horrible shapes. These are the monsters. They take you. They take you and... turn you into one of them. Your body breaks. Changes. I saw my Aunt die this way. It was on my honor that I took my axe and drove it into her brain." The words come... not with a traumatized edge, but something that is almost proud. Practical. This is what her life was. "Here..." And Bylgja rises, then, only to find a patch of discolored dirt. She smears her claws into it, and there, on the ground, she sketches out a being that looks mostly like a wolf, only its face is too long, and its jaws come out of its face, into a strange, lashing tongue. She points. "It is like this, sometimes. The tongue is what turns you." And she laughs, softly. Self-consciously. "So... here, is... much... different. I am not used to it yet." A quiet admission. One that comes with a shrug of her shoulders. "Bylgja"

His work stopped entirely, and he looked at her. Tilting his head as he regarded her with curiosity. He had never heard of anything like these creatures before. He knew of the gods, and runes, but creatures that raised the dead? He thought upon the practicality of ending one you knew because they had been taken. He nodded his head, and spoke so she would know he understood. “When my siblings proved weak, a hindrance, my mother killed them as well.” He said practically.

He got to his paws to look at the drawing she sketched in the dirt. Of the wolf that was not a wolf, he tilted his head, trying to see it as it would look in real life. He struggled to imagine it. “Why did you leave?” He asked, curious to learn more about her past, about these strange beings.

"Speech"

What he told her was not the same, really. Not the same at all. But Bylgja nodded, nonetheless, because while it was not the same, she understood. This was a moment of connection. Her thoughts -- including a frustration that a mother would do such a thing -- simmered in her chest. She did not voice it. Not yet. Not now. There would be time, later, to speak these things. Now, they spoke of better things. After a short pause, Bylgja licked her teeth and said: "We have both done well to survive." It comes out solemn. A hymn, or prayer, almost. "And we survive longer, too." Yes. She would free this boy, and he would learn. Strai puzzled over the drawing. She watched him, and did not speak, for it was much to consider. "I did not mean to leave." The admission is said plainly, as much as everything else she's said so far. "We were at sea. A storm came. I was thrown over-- and I woke on the shores of Auster." Auster. So far down below. And she had come here, walking through lands not her own, to find the mountain, and the steppe. "I am here, now. Is much less... eh... monsters. At least so far." She couldn't write them off, of course. Who knew what lurked here? "Bylgja"

Strai nodded his head at that, finding it to be the most relatable thing she had ever said. She understood, she knew how tenuous survival could be. That he had lived this long sometimes felt unexpected, but he kept coming away from close stints with death. Stronger, more resilient. As he was raised to be. “We’ll keep surviving.” He said softly, picking up the axe once more and examining it. This place threatened to make him weak, there were things that mattered to him now, and that was dangerous.

“Where is Auster?” He asked, braving the questions while she seemed willing to answer them. He did not know her yet, didn’t know what her threshold would be. So he’d keep pushing the boundaries, and see what happened. He glanced at the art again, then back at her. “There are always monsters, just not always once you recognise.”


"Speech"

He seemed to understand. Strai had surely done something to become a Thrall, but that was besides the point. Their interaction had nothing to do with it. From what Bylgja could tell, he was a promising young lad with a future ahead of him, who just had to be let out of what he'd gotten himself into. Simple. "We will. There is nothing wrong with feeling-- nothing wrong with having things to hold on to." Perhaps the repetition would be unappreciated. Perhaps not. Bylgja wasn't sure. But she needed to say it. That was the thing. She needed to say it.

"Auster is--" She gestures, and it's not like she's gesturing anywhere in particular, because they're inside. "South." That was, to her, some degree of satisfying. "It was very warm." That much she did know, and it had certainly not been for her. No. Too damn warm. Too much... humidity down there. But the ocean had been pleasant, at least. "Down far enough... there is a-- passage between there and... here." Her paws stamped down on the earth. She didn't know the name of Boreas, but she hoped the point got across.

Strai spoke. Bylgja listened. He had listened to her; she could do him the same favor. "There are. Yes." Her ears flicked back. "It is sometimes easier to recognize them, it is true." The axe... it looked wonderful, so far, and she swept a claw through the dirt. When it was sharpened properly, it would be a beautiful killing tool.

"Bylgja"

He squinted at Bylgja. He thought they were agreeing to one thing, but her words made it seem she believed they were agreeing to another. Oh well, nothing for it now. She could think as she wished. He gave her axe an experimental shake, swinging it one way and then the other. Nothing felt loose, nothing rattled. That was always a good sign.

He hadn’t gotten a chance to explore much of these lands before his unfortunate encounter with Vidarr, so he hadn’t gone South as she had. He didn’t care much for the warmth either. It wasn’t what he was accustomed to. Bsides, you could always put more layers on, but after a certain point, you couldn’t keep taking layers off.

“Alright, this is pretty much done. Do you want me to put the edge on, or would you rather do it yourself?” He asked her, holding the weapon out to her. Now that the axe was done, he wondered if she would push them to start on some of the other chores she had envisioned for them. Hunting, herbs, dyes.

"Speech"

Bylgja watched as he tested the axe. With a quiet noise, she reached out to take it. It felt weighted right. She gave it a momentary little practice swing, just enough to feel the heft of it, and came away with a satisfied nod, curling her claws into the ground beneath her. "I can put the edge on myself." It isn't said defensively, though-- it's almost reverent. Bylgja wants to do this part herself-- she's helped, so far, but this is going to be the part that unites her with the axe. She sets the axe down long enough to find a coarse stone. Then, Bylgja settles with the axe, and begins to grind the stone over it, working the metal down. The runes are set in close to the axe's grip, thankfully; there's no concern about whittling them away as she sharpens the axe, easing the edge into it with a practiced movement. She leans into each motion of the stone; she moves the axe, too, ensuring that it does not become overly thin. This is the work of someone who knows what a weapon means. Something behind her eyes. Promise, maybe. She drags her cheek fur against the axe. It cuts. Flutters slowly to the ground beneath her. Bylgja looks at the axe. She remembers the help of her cousins, as she learned to hammer metal. Remembers the heat of a forge. She turns the weapon over in her claws. Her jaw clenches. Relaxes. She breathes out. Then she stands, and whatever she was ruminating over is gone. "Is wonderful. If you're up for it, we could kill something. Cure the hides. Make a backstrap." He has an out. If he wants it. Sure, she can find a strap here, somewhere-- but it will be different to make one. To feel the life leave beneath her teeth, and make that death into something new. "Bylgja"