#v; se på ditt hav se på ditt hav det förstår; hur du mår hur du mår det består

[sxbaist]

​|| lyric starter call - Ulvetime (Hour of the Wolf) by Songleikr​

Warmth between them pulses through her like a wildfire amid a harsh winter’s scourge. ”Jeg kan ikke sove, jeg kan kun I natten våke... Over mine år,” she murmurs to @northernxstories, nearly too quiet to perceive. The furs that bed them are less a comfort than he is, the one to tame the wild wolf, Vega shifts so she’s on his chest, propping her head on her arm. The light likens her to a sly, crafty thing, with a smile that begets the darker parts of her. “I cannot find peace, my Bjorn, in my wolf-hour. Anywhere. I am restless.”

[sxbaist]

Fimbulvetr

@northernxmuses || Bjorn

Something about the vastness and the sorrow of isolation calmed her. By nature, she was vicious and forever guarded, a wolf thrown from its pack, wounded and bleeding but alive. Vega had never quite fit in, never entirely adapted to her own people, and when the tantalizing music of the nøkk had begun to haunt her dreams, leaving had not been a terribly difficult choice to make. And so she took her tools and what little she owned, and ventured deep into the wilderness-- as far from any rivers, creeks, or lakes as she could, to drown out the sounds of the violin.

For the most part, it had worked, and for the past two winters, she had thrived peacefully. Prey was plentiful and she had built herself a decent shelter. Nothing as intricate as the village’s homes, but a cabin of sufficient size to warm her in the dawning of the new season. The winds were growing colder and Vega knew that a storm would hit in the evening, likely bringing forth the first great snowfall of the winter. 

Vega had been checking her traps to secure meals for the coming days, without knowing how long the storm would last she wanted to prepare for the worst. Luckily, her bounty was decent enough, and she trudged back to her cabin, dragging the meat behind her with ropes. Be it a sound or a subtle change in perception, she paused, immediately defensive, wishing she carried more than a skinning knife with her (the rest of her weapons, her shield, were secured in her home). Voice unused in a long while, she all but managed with a dry throat to the nearest tree line, “I know you’re there. Who are you?”