Private Only the Winds

[Åsmund Ótta]

Location:
Hljóðleva Encampment, Islimore

Timeframe:
Three Weeks Prior to the Völsung Massacre
Six Weeks Prior to the arrival of Ket Van-Derveld

A gentle breeze was in the air, the sun high overhead, the days still comfortably warm as autumn began to encroach and Åsmund Ótta entered the camp on his return from one of the most solemn of his duties as Draoidae, one he has scarcely performed over the three and a half decades of his life. The first time he had laid one of his people to rest, without guidance, it had been his own father, only months after assisting in sending his mother to Freann as well. He would never forget the rites. Never.

He looked across the ruins in which the Hljóðleva Encampment was erected, impressed with the progress in the camp’s growth, as it had only just gotten started before he left Islimore again for the third time in his life, to give last rites and tend to the passing of another: the father of the very she-wolf that crossed his field of vision, bringing him to a standstill, his eyes following her as she disappeared into one of the many tents that made up this gathering of Lupo for what was surely to come. He would have a part in it, but his concerns were with the now, and with what had come to pass in recent days.

“Cérmæ, give me strength,” he uttered, a brief closing of his eyes as he spoke the plea, opening them with a heavy sigh that was the voice of his worn spirit; tending to the end of a life weighed on him as it evoked old and pain-streaked memories, but he did not hate it, seeing the comfort the rites and ceremony ultimately brought. In this, his work was not yet done; one foot in front of the other, Åsmund crossed the camp, swallowing apprehension as he approached what was the tent of Freya Drage. She was another thing he could never forget… rather, the day of their first meeting. He could see it clear as the cloudless sky, how she walked into view, and how it had struck a chord within him. It hadn’t been her beauty alone, no, nor had it been the scent of her wolf.

“...”

He seemed to be held up to stand by the air itself, outside the flaps to her tent, mulling over how he might handle the completion of the breaking of this heart, even if she knew it had been only a matter of time. As Draoidh, as a friend… no matter the role, it was hard to find the words.

“Freya,” he started, going to lay a faint touch of his hand against the flap of the tent, when it peeled back in his hesitation, and there he was, face to face with her, “ah…”

He pulled back his hand, his brow creasing slightly, the corners of his mouth barely turning upward.

“...might we talk?”

Freya Drage

 

[Freya Drage]

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Appearance | XoXo
Location | Hljóðleva Encampment, Islimore
Tag | Åsmund Ótta

This was not her first bout on Islimore, nor was it the first time she’d been a part of a resistance group here, her initial journey into the fray resulting in her working with an underground cabal to return home, towing a slew of wolves behind her. ‘More strays’, as Børre had called them.

It was, however, the first time she’d been away from her family when they’d needed her explicitly and she was unable to be there - the twilight of Odvin Drage upon them. The titanic wolf had been rough and brusque with his sons, and at times even violent, but with his only daughter, the hulking wolf was always soft, as if he’d reserved what little tenderness he had to give for her and her alone. Leaving them felt like leaving behind a piece of herself and the weight of that particular grief pressed heavy against her breast, right next to the oaths she’d made to the suffering and needy who were here - throwing her lot in with the greater movement that was starting to form.

In the least, Freya took some comfort knowing that Åsmund was there in her stead.

Several weeks had passed since she’d come back, with a good deal of progress having already been made by the clans who’d gathered together, especially after Gerwald and Declan had taken on the challenge to get several of the prefabbed shelters up themselves.

A slight frown threatened at the corners of her lips with the remembrance of her meeting with the latter, unconsciously rubbing at her delicate wrist, where a light bruise yet healed. Their interaction had been… less than ideal. But, as Freya was prone to do, she moved on with the hope that her words would strike some chord in the winter wolf. What the Gods had needed her to tell him was out in the open. Whatever Declan decided to do with it now, would be up to him.

In the meantime… the spring wolf was good at being patient, her days filled with the duties of a Draoidae - leading the rites and prayers she’d been taught, mending broken bones and patching up wounds inflicted through sparring or other… more unfortunate circumstances, imparting wisdom where she could. Mercy upon mercy, she moved among them.

And she was… drained.

Exhaustion finally hit her like a physical blow, and after her final stop of the day, Freya retreated to slip quietly behind the flaps of her own tent, intending to sink down onto the long couch that beckoned her - but a different chorus sang out to her, feeling the throngs of he who had been absent in the back of her mind, the sensation dancing across her skin.

Swiftly she spun on her heels and vaulted to leave, to find him, only…

“Freya, ah,” He pulled back his hand, face to face with her now, his brow creasing slightly, the corners of his mouth barely turning upward.

She studied his face carefully - the pain that lingered there, noted the hesitation in his eyes.

“...might we talk?”

Her heart quaked within her chest. “...Uhm, y-yes.” she answered dumbly, unsure that she wanted to hear what he’d come to tell her. The joy of seeing him turning to ashes in her mouth, replaced by the bitter tang of fear that now coated her tongue. “Please… come in.”

 

[Åsmund Ótta]

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Location: Hljóðleva Encampment, Islimore
Tag: Freya Drage

Her answer trembled and tripped with the shaking he himself felt at being here, doing this, and his hand gripped tighter around his staff, an attempt to steady himself, until she retreated into the tent, allowing him to follow.

“I hope…” Åsmund started, coming to his full height after ducking into the tent, “...my absence hasn’t been too much of a strain.”

He himself had needed to acclimatise to the volume of needs from the souls of their people after she had reconnected him to them, but save for the handful of years that he had been separated from his kind, caring for their spiritual well-being across clan lines had been his life. It was easy for him to slip back into the role.

“Why don’t we take a seat…”

For her, however… until this point she had only tended to the needs of her own clan. He could see the wear and exhaustion from her position writ into her face, there with what she felt, knowing what his return meant. He swallowed, knowing that beating around the bush would be of no use.

“...and talk about your father?” His brow was still pulled together, as he reached for her hand to guide her to sit, “I want to tell you… I could hear pride for you in his voice, Freya, his love for you.”