( closed. )

[wolfchild]

CHARACTERS: assorted foolhardy souls
DATE: spanning a few days
WARNINGS: none atm; but arya and nymeria are both terrible
SUMMARY: meetings and follow-ups; pm for a starter

[ every night since she was brought to this dead world, her dreams have been empty. a belly empty of dream meat. ears empty of the songs of her little grey cousins. a heart, empty. as if something that had always been there…abruptly gone.

the kindly man would be pleased if he knew. if she told him. she would not even if she could. she would never be able to lie well enough. if he asked her how it felt, she fears the tears would choke her voice. she goes to bed each night hoping. she wakes each morning disappointed.

she has been so many people. maybe it was only a matter of time before she truly began to lose her hold on arya stark. the kindly man would look on her proudly. a sorrowful nostalgia blooms blackened flowers in a chest left aching and hollow.

until she wakes to a hot puff of air across her face.

her room is dark, the bed warm. she can feel the presence, warmer even than the bed, smelling of pine and soil and air and something older, something deeper. it's the smell of the northern wind rattling her shutters. it's the smell of her favorite red blanket when she wrapped herself in it. it's the smell of the warm grey walls of winterfell. it's the smell of her wolf when she would sneak the pup into her bed and nymeria would sleep curled up at the foot of her bed.

a tear squeezes past eyes still closed, then another. a rough tongue laps at the salt on her cheek. arya sobs, her mouth stretching into a watery grin.

her eyes blink open. nymeria is a shadow darker than those behind her, but her eyes glimmer strangely gold.

arya throws her arms around the wolf's neck. trembling, she clings to nymeria. the wolf makes a noise low in her throat and noses sweetly at her hair and shoulder. arya cries and arya laughs, until, spent, she tangles her fingers through the long thick fur. she breathes a gentle, contented sigh. ]

Comments

[deemed]

[Odinson's straightens, blue eyes shifting from the wolf to the girl. She would please their father, her fierce spirit and blunt approach would place her in his favour.

But their father isn't here. Just the sons, neither of them exactly what legend promised. Not that she knew the legends.

Nor that she would have expected them to come if she had. Many worlds had silent, distant gods, objects of worship rather than personalities to be interacted with.] Call to us from anywhere you choose and we will answer you. The offering is customary, a gift in return for assistance or wisdom imparted. It needs not be bacon. [Right brother? goes unspoken.]

Though you look a little young to offer mead or ale.

[wolfchild]

Anyone can offer drinks. [ a touch impatiently as if trying not to offend, but unable to keep herself correcting him. ]

I've had mead and ale anyway. And beer and wine. If I find any, I'll serve it too. Come on, you. Back to the castle.

[ the last is directed at nymeria still eyeing the gods warily. zokla's fingers scratch behind a grey ear. ]

[selfimage]

[ the look Thor gives him receives an innocent expression in return (it doesn't look good on his face, like he wasn't made for it). ]

It's as she says. [ there's a suspended shrug before he tucks his hands in the pocket of his hoodie and swaggers on after her. ] Come along, brother. It's time for breakfast!

[ it's late, but breakfast can be eaten at any time. ]