skill: ranger

Journey ran somewhere in the tundra lands between openness of the winterscar great lake and the veil shrouded in smog. She had been bound to Northfall for far too long and after all their visitors had returned to their homelands, a quiet settled into the territory once again.

The journeyman longed to stretch her legs, to venture and so, she did. Packlife did not bind the woman, especially one which followed rhe culture of viking and their exploratory nature. She would enjoy herself out here without second thought.

Quick paces through the heavy snows, she woofed out, stirring the crow, stirring the herd in the distance. She watched with a wonder as caribou rushed and the ground rumbled under her feet from their hoof beats. Hooves she once had in anither life and long missed.

snow split beneath her paws like surf breaking on stone—sharp and heavy and freeing.

thrúd had followed no trail, no plan, only the quiet itch the existed deep beneath her skin and called her to restlessness. it carried her far from anything familiar and deeper into the bite of the tundra, where the sky stretched wide and pale and hers.

she caught the scent first: foreign but clean, feminine. strong. then came the sound—laughter?—no, a bark. something stirred in the distance. a herd, maybe. thunderous. wild.

her ears pricked. across the drifts, she saw her—woman white as snow and accented with red. thrúd slowed enough to watch the caribou break like waves across the white.

the girl loops the herd to reach this woman, gait shortened enough that she would not come across as threat. they are pretty, the caribou, she meant, though she wasn't sure if the comment was for herself or the wolf before her.

There is a tall woman in the distance, light on her feet as she arces around the herd. Watching just as Journey herself and does not attempt to give chase. She is dark of coat savor a river of paler hue spilling down her throat to chest. Her movements are airy as she strides the journeyman's way.

Yes, yes, they really are. She agrees wholeheartedly and not an ounce of falseness is there in her voice as she watches the caribou run with almost a wanting, a yearning to be among them. Journey would not think to stare the woman off so quickly by saying that she missed having such a body as them again. Yet if one thing she missed more then powerful legs and pounding hooves, it was her wings! Oh, her wings! If only to soar again!

Have you lived in this world long? An odd manner of saying 'have you been in this land long', but that simply was not that case for this magical world.

the tall dame approaches like a shadow cast in motion—light-footed despite her size, head held high with a calm assurance she saw in her mother.

thrúd doesn’t hide the way she watches her. nor the quiet curiosity in the glance she tosses at the caribou again, as if seeing them differently now through the lens of the girl's voice. she hums along in accordance to her words, softened just a little. she lets the silence stretch, long enough for the snow to settle, before a question—strange, though not unexpected—lands in her ears.

thrúd blinks, not startled but amused. something in the phrasing scratches pleasantly at the edge of her mind, the way stories do. no, but i'm finding my around easy enough. she answers after a moment. i am thrúd gjallasdottir, of stormrift.

Stormrift hu? The land which she was from yet now worlds away, as with many. Journey was able to say that she was born into this world, however. And I am Stormborn. She stated with a bit of a cheeky smile in the shared words of 'storm'. Journey Stormborn, af Norðurfall. The other woman's last name spoke of their shared culture. As it were, Gjalla had once been a member of Northfall and her mother even so being a woman which Journey's father had aligned with many, many moons ago. Far beyond the treacherous creation of Journey and her brothers.

It does not take a true northern long to learn new snow, does it? Northfall, as many other packs surely, had become common little helpers when it came to others gathering their barring in this new, magical realm. If not from this life, then another, Journey had learned that many a hardy northerner didn't stay lost for long. There was never much which shook their resolve. She wondered if one day she might meet another former valkyrja as herself.

a pleasure, journey stormborn. thrúd echoes, mouth tilting crooked at the edge. less a smile, but recognition. where i am from, that makes you a princess. she had the shape of it, looked the part. familiar strong stride, confident. no flattery is needed, really. it is merely truth. she moves like the north. like the old blood.

at her question, thrúd hums low, almost thoughtfully, gaze flicking toward the stretch of land behind them. no. it doesn’t, she agrees, a rare softness shaping her voice. snow is snow. the soul knows what to do.

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this is really bad im so sorry