the sun fell over the horizon quicker than she had accounted for. amber had just begun to bleed into violet smears by the time Gjalla reached the stream.

the wind came through sharp here—it cut against the trees and kissed frost bitten ground.

the dark woman walked without urgency, her gait still marked by a lingering ache in her bones, but steadier now. the faint dusting of silver snow along her back caught the last kiss of daylight before it faded over the mountains.

her breath curled in soft clouds as she paused atop a low ridge, the tips of golden grass swaying at her ankles. ears turned forward, listening—not for danger—simply for the song of the land.

gjalla tilted her head upward, eyes narrowing at the swirl of clouds overhead. she hadn’t said much in the days since she had crash-landed here—not much reason to. her presence alone felt like thunder held at bay.

---

Geirmundr

the old wolf stepped from between the trees like shadow born flesh, his breath a low fog trailing from scar-scored lips. he bore the scent of old blood and fresh kill—moose, maybe, or something close to it. his jaws had not long since opened, and now they closed again, silent.
he had not expected company.
and yet, there she stood.
golden grass stirred at her ankles. snow clung like salt to her back. a hard wind slipped between them, but he did not flinch. geirmundr was weathered into this world, worn into shape by wind and war. he looked at her, steady as the mountain, pale eyes catching what little light was left.
no greeting. none needed.
just a narrowing of gaze, the faint flare of one ear. studying. testing.

gjalla didn’t startle when he stepped into view, though not for lack of intimidation. the wind curled between them, threading through her mane and lifting a few loose curls from the curve of her jaw. she stood still as stone, but periwinkle eyes caught him with needlepoint precision. big man, built like an ox with the face of a fearsome bear.

she could smell the blood on him before the wind shifted. his maw was no longer tainted by it, but he was. it's not stale, but not recent enough to matter. her nostrils flared once. he was made of old things, this one. she recognized it the same way a blade knows another when their edges meet. scarred lips, hulking posture. ghost, carved from meat and memory.

gjalla’s head tilted slightly, mane tumbling along the curve of her throat. her tail gave a slow flick, more acknowledgment than invitation (not rejection, either). she said nothing. let the silence settle thick again. it did not choke her. it never had.

finally, her chin lifted. something ancient flickered behind her eyes, beckoning. not flame nor fury, ice-cold and scalding in the same breath. well?

he stopped a pace away.
twinkling periwinkle set eyes gazed upon his hardened, scarred stature. and his, bronze and fleeting light, glinted thereafter of her indigo-grey hues. he hadn't seen such a pristine woman like her— well-built, a northern woman if he had any guess. his elk charm had been much more muted, demure, and featherlight as she ghosted over these hilltops.
she had said nothing, either. just stared at him with those widened eyes from a tale that was taught over the crackle of firelight and a good ale.
his nostrils flared, ears pinning backward as he absorbed her scent. ripened feminine, musked by the mountainside.
he didn't have words for her, still. his elk charm could barely get a sentence from him, but it wasn't as though she truly prodded him for words. he didn't need them, only the rigid brawn of his shoulders and the dexterity of his bite.
his nose lowered to the ground. signaling to her. maybe she would understand the oldblooded gesture— he did not know. there were caribou here recently. droppings a half meter to their left.
he snorted once. hunt with me.

her gaze didn’t flinch when he stepped the final pace. he met her eyes and matched them—didn’t waver or narrow. he was brutish in the violent sort of way that women could grow to like. to want, perhaps. and want, she did, for he was like her. she was cut from something solid, just as he. mountainbone and northern-bred, carved from marble, finished with a nobleman's polish.

she saw the motion of his nose. a tilt, then pause. not the fumbling of a beast guessing at language, but a language already known. instinct. her eyes didn’t leave his as her head dipped slow—slow enough to communicate her understanding. yes. hunt.

gjalla stepped forward to round him. a soft chuff left her throat—barely a sound, more breath than voice. her paws moved without ceremony until her shoulder passed near his, just close enough to feel the breadth of him. big. warm. warlike. they wouldn’t need to speak.

she glanced once over her shoulder, then down the slope. a glimmer in her eye that wasn’t quite a smile, but close.
lead the way, she seemed to say. and if he didn’t, she would.

northwoman obliged.
he led her through with his nose pinned to the woodland floors; scents infiltrating each crevice, setting off fumes for him to follow, to hone. it was not long that after he surged over a log to reveal them, then:
there, through the undergrowth was a doe and her fawn. he turned toward her, broadened muscles catching the faintlight of the sun trickling through the leaves above. scarred, his jaw ticked over those periwinkle eyes; was she as capable as he imagined her to be?
he grumbled once more, pleasure, or confirmation, that the fawn would be their target. perhaps the mother.
he moved into position to strike. his elk charm would not go hungry, and she would even have a pelt for her wetu.

she followed him without question, bodies slipping between the trees side-by-side like twin shadows. the way he tracked was methodical, ancient—something to be taken to heart and revered. she mirrored him in silence, as to allow them to find a rhythm to step to. a pacing.

when he surged the log, she was quick at his heels, landing without sound, eyes immediately locking onto the pair in the clearing.

the doe grazed, half-alert, with a fawn lingered just behind, smaller, softer. easier. a quick death. her gaze slid toward him as he turned, pale light catching the harsh lines of his face. muscle. scars mapped out across his skin like tapestry. he grumbled low, the sound deep in his chest, and she held his stare with a flicker of dark approval.

the fawn, then.

gjalla's tongue passed over her lips, nodded with the soft tip of her chin. she shifted just enough to let the wind slide around her side, angling downwind so that her scent would not betray them.

her tail flicked once, low and brief. confirmation. ready.

geirmundr didn’t speak— he never did in moments like this. his breath was shaped by the hunt and the woman at his flank who moved as though born to this rhythm. when she gave her signal, he gave his own: a low shift of his shoulder, the barest turn of his head, gaze locking to hers.
the fawn, yes. mercy cloaked in swiftness.
he adjusted course like a glacier shifting— silent, sure, and inevitable. his weight dipped into his haunches, steadying as he took one step, then another, until only the final stretch lay between them and the kill. a nod, small and sharp. now.

when his head tipped and bronze eyes met hers, gjalla nodded once, breath curling like smoke in the space between them before it dissipates. they would not waste this. mercy had its place, but not here.

she peeled off to the left, flank dipping low, shoulder brushing against the bark of a bent pine as she circled wide. she angled her steps to keep downwind, mane sweeping wild around her face as she moved through pockets between trees.

the fawn twitched, ears flicking. the doe raised her head. not alarmed, not yet, but it should be. gjalla paused, muscles coiling in preparation as she turned her head away to the northman. seeking not a command, but guidence. were they moving together, or would he hold? she would flush if he waited. break the edge and drive the fawn toward his jaws like prey into the snare.

her tail gave a single twitch. the choice was his.