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PRP altars - Printable Version

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altars - Sverke - 7/17/2026


for Fa'liya; raven can be powerplayed ofc!

A golden-red woodland. As the sun begins its arc across the sky, the light filters through heaps of red-gold wisteria drapery to cast the air itself in a hazy gold and pink. Starkly night-sky blue, the Sun-eater stands out starkly against the backdrop. And against the otherwise introspective, secluded quiet of the leaves and flowers, the raven's call is similarly jarring.

The bird has not left him alone most of the morning. From branch to branch, poking its dark, ruffled head of feathers from the crimson florals to croak at Skoll before alighting to the air when the boy snaps at it.

Odin is displeased, he guesses. Well, hopefully that means that wherever Asgeir is, he's causing immeasurable headache and calamity for the One-Eyed. The idea puts a certain pep in Sverke's step, even though the raven's insistence grates on his nerves and eardrums. Sverke sprawls across a lichen-clad stone once quiet descends over the forest again, heaves a sigh. Little reprieve is given before an obsidian eye reflects the young fra Stjernene's visage back at him, surrounded by a sea of iridescent feathers. Instinct more than irritation makes Sverke's jaws snap before, but too late to do anything but close around the wind beat into life by the bird's wings. A draconian snort heaves from his lungs. Nästa gång, lille spion.


RE: altars - Fa'liya - 7/22/2026

cleared the notif to fast and almost forgot :'0 sorry for the delay!
the raven finds her fast. its call carries strangely through the red-gold wood, rough enough to catch against the soft fall of flowers. fa'liya stops beneath a curtain of wisteria, one forepaw lifted, black-tipped ears turning toward the sound. ravens were hardly uncommon, but few things must be uncommon to become meaningful. repetition is often enough. insistence, more so. this one seems to be third; insistent as it calls again from somewhere ahead.

the forest here is not sun clan's, but their borders lie near enough that scents remain familiar. she has strayed from them deliberately, following a narrow game path that bends where the pack’s trails do not. privacy is easier found where no one expects her to be useful. so, too, are the little silences in which she can stop and breathe without another set of eyes measuring the effort. the wheeze in her lungs has been surprisingly mild this morning, and still she waits until the tightness passes before moving again.

the raven croaks a third time, and to that fa’liya finally looks up. nyke rȳbagon ao, she murmurs, though she does not yet know whether she speaks to bird or spirit. gold spills over her back when she passes beneath the next break in the branches. the flowers make the wood feel warmer than it is, their colors softening every stone and root until even the shadows seem bruised pink rather than black. somewhere ahead, wings beat once against the air. a male voice follows, shaped around words she does not understand. the cadence is sharp enough to make meaning unnecessary. irritation travels easily between tongues.

fa’liya slows again, her head lowering until her spine becomes a small, cautious line beneath the hanging blossoms. the scent reaches her then: wolven and unfamiliar, touched by distance and open air. not one of theirs, and yet not close enough to the border to be called an intrusion. close enough that ignorance would be a poor excuse if he wandered nearer. she turns from the game path and follows the scent at an angle, moving neither toward him nor away. the raven gives one low, satisfied click from above.

RE: altars - Sverke - 7/22/2026


nw! <3

This time, the bird doesn't circle back. The wisteria woodlands fall quiet as he drapes himself over the stone of his perch and lets his gaze rove the bruised magenta of the forest's shade. The Sun-eater only lingers for a moment, before a second wind revitalizes him now without the raven's harassment leeching the will to go on from his bones. There is no one, nothing to chase. Only ghosts and memories of those not here. Only the sun blotted out by tree crowns that he can never reach. Only his mother who chose not to keep him by her side.

The wind shifts. He's not alone out here. Wolf-scent, tainted as if someone crushed fruit and then abandoned it to rot. Sverke rolls to his belly, slinks forward until his chin and paws drape over the edge of the stone. Is that a shadow moving or a stranger? He calls out with a friendly chuff, trying to coax the stranger into the light. Two-toned eyes strain to make out identifying shapes from beneath the wisteria, while a few stray petals drift down to decorate his forehead and shoulders.



RE: altars - Fa'liya - 7/24/2026

the chuff reaches her through the hanging flowers. it is not a challenge; there is no sharpness beneath it, no demand that she show herself, but still fa’liya pauses with one shoulder brushing the wisteria, half concealed in magenta shade. her ears angle forward as the male offers another low sound, friendly enough to coax her closer.

tentatively, the girl slips sideways through the drapery, choosing a place where the light reaches the forest floor in thin, honeyed columns. petals drag over her narrow back and catch briefly in the uneven rise of her fur before falling away. compared to the wolf upon the stone, she is slight and unfinished, all small bones and lean angles beneath a pelt too thin to soften them. she stops where the gold touches only her forepaws, leaving the rest of her in mottled shade.

for several breaths, she says nothing. petals have gathered upon his brow and shoulders until the woodland seems to be attempting some gentler disguise for him. it does not succeed. he remains too stark against the gold and red, like night caught beneath flowering branches. one of her ears flicks as she notices his eyes are not of one color. there is youth in his face, though not innocence.

she wonders loosely, curiously, what the spirits would make of him: a dark-blue stranger beneath red flowers with eyes of evening hue. she makes no sound beside breathing, gaze glued to his.

RE: altars - Sverke - 7/24/2026



No response, but there is movement in the shadows he cannot make out clearly. Sverke urges himself to exercise patience, some degree of caution helping to pin him to the stone's cool surface as the acidic notes of sick reach his sensitive, gold-kissed nose. Red petal after red petal piles on his fur like scarlet snowfall, undisturbed by movement except the rise and fall of his breath and the attentive twitch of his ears, the main sign that despite his statuesque posture, the man is searching intently for his quarry.

She emerges in tentative increments from the invisibility of the shadows. A fawn's dappling of sunlight on an onyx back, the shape of her silhouette formed by the draping of wisteria like a lace shawl, and gold light that tips her toes. That's all, except for wary eyes of ice glowing from within the forest. Sverke settles his chin deeper on the pillow of his wrists, and rewards the stranger's approach - and caution - with a sweep of his white-tipped tail. He sizes her up, picking out scarce details and filling in blotted swaths of shadow with bony shoulders and slim limbs.

Frail, skittish maidens have become something of an acquired taste. Sverke keeps crossing paths with them, after all, and his greed is an undiscerning thing. Approval smooths his brow, and appreciation curves his mouth into a faint smile.

He shakes his head and scruff, shedding the hawk's intensity of his gaze and the red flower petals. A flicker of mirth is in the dusky glow of his eyes as he seeks to return her stare. Hey there. You from the folks camped over there? A flick of his chin to indicate the direction he means, the pack borders he's aware of and not particularly concerned about. He knows to keep himself on the neutral side of them, and if the pack-wolves want to pick a fight outside their purview, Sverke will deliver. Could be fun.



RE: altars - Fa'liya - 7/30/2026

his smile settles over her strangely. approval without familiarity, warmth sharpened by something she cannot quite name. fa’liya does not retreat, though one ear folds sideways and her weight shifts almost imperceptibly toward the shelter of the flowers. there is little threat in the motion of his tail and less still in the ease with which he has laid himself open across the stone, but instinct is directed by more than outward threat.

she understands little of his tongue and glances where his chin points instead of offering words. the linger saatsine lie a little beyond the wisteria wood. is that what he means? sun clan, she supplies, a little rough at the edges where language and breath catches faintly. yes. mine.

fa’liya steps another pace into the light. gold climbs from her forepaws to the narrow bones of her chest, revealing more plainly what the shadows had softened: the hollows beneath her ribs, the fragile slope of her shoulders, black fur dulled in sickness. a red petal settles between her ears. you not saatsine. who you?

RE: altars - Sverke - 7/30/2026



She doesn't speak the common tongue well, this becomes evident the moment she does deign to speak. Sun clan are the wolves that hunt this forest, the pack she belongs to. Mine, she says. Sverke gives a slight nod.

Another measured step forward, as if the distance between them is dark, thin ice and not a sturdy forest floor littered with a cushion of wisteria petals. Two-toned eyes dip into the hollow between ribs, the arch of an underfed waist, sallow cheeks, illuminated in stark contrast by the morning's glow. After a cursory inspection, he glances toward her cool, icy blue eyes again. Do they not feed you over there? Sverke drawls the question, and it's almost light enough to be a dry-humored joke if she wants to try to take it that way. There's an undercurrent of sincerity, not quite hidden under the flippant delivery.

I'm Sverke. Mine are Skjoldrheim, very far north from here. The language barrier and her standoffish caution hold the usually unstoppable force at bay, steadied upon his perch, the tip of his tail waving side to side to satisfy an impulse for fidgeting. Who're you?



RE: altars - Fa'liya - 8/9/2026

her attention follows his gaze before she realizes what he is looking at.

for a moment, she simply watches him. there is a confusion in her expression, as though she is trying to understand why this is the first thing he has chosen to ask. feed? her gaze drops briefly to herself, then returns to him. yes.

it is a truthful answer, but perhaps not the answer he seeks. she wonders if he can smell the real one hiding inside it. she wonders if all wolves can. her own clan could—they have always been able to.

her gaze moves over him again, this time with a little less caution and a little more curiosity. sverke, she tries, careful with the shape of it. the pronunciation is imperfect, softened by her own tongue. she tilts her head afterward, watching for whether she has done it correctly. i am fa’liya.

you far from.. skjoldrheim, she repeats after a moment, though the longer word nearly tangles itself. this not north. why was someone like him so far from his home? with a bird, no less, who's absence suddenly felt much more noticeable. strange, considering how much noise it had made before.

bird bring you?

RE: altars - Sverke - 8/21/2026



Yes, she says. Sverke arches a brow, unconvinced but quite certain prodding that particular exposed nerve will only get him a glimpse of the woman melting back into the shadows and disappearing. The acrid stink of stomach-acid on her breath and fur would argue otherwise - he keeps his mouth shut, not entirely without grey matter inside his skull.

Sverke, said in an entirety of ermine-soft syllables and her strong accent. Sverke nods lightly, parrots her name in return: Fa'liya. That's pretty.

She says he's far from home, that this is not north. Sverke huffs a dry laugh, sheds a few more scarlet petals with the movement. Lashes droop low and lazy over fire and ice eyes, his tail patting the stone beneath him a couple times. I'd noticed. Wry, dry humor woven through the rumble of his storm-clad voice.

Bird bring you?

No, my idiot brothers did. The bird is just the latest trouble my family can send my way. He rolls his eyes, not sure how much of that she will catch but there is no more truthful answer. The bird is perched in a nearby tree, shiny black eye angled to perceive the proceedings in keen, cunning silence. Sverke flicks an ear at it, plops his chin back on his paws to watch the shadow-woman again. Droplets of rich gold dapple her along the red, like a curtain of jewels and gold coin. Why are you out here? Looking for a hunt? Or just....fresh air?