 you don't need wings to be an angel The fae's stomach clenched slightly as the male's gaze met hers. She swiftly smiled and glanced away; she wasn't sure she liked this sensation; she would prefer to keep her distance, at least for a while. "Ja, meg heller," she said, "og spraken her er så annerledes fra spraken i Norden." Although she had found little difficulty in picking up the basics, the complexities and exceptions of the language escaped her. Having come to this strange land unprepared, she had done relatively well to learn what she had, though she hadn't yet interacted properly with the natives here. They were so alien, so different from her own. Where her kin were white and pale grey, with the sole exception of one jet-black brute, the wolves here were a mixture of all sorts of colours, the most noticeably different of which being russet, brown and blonde. She was once again brought back to the present by Ragnar asking her to sit with him. She examined him once more, gauging his body language, then obliged. She sat a small distance from him, still on guard, and let her eyes wander. A wide river meandered along at the base of the slope, clear and cold-looking. It was swift and deep, fed by the spring meltwater from upstream. The clatter of pebbles reached her pricked ears, along with the occasional cry of the hawk. A cool breeze ruffled her fur, giving her a strong waft of Ragnar's musky scent. She subtly breathed it in, enjoying the sharp reminder of home and comfort. His odour, though, was slightly different from that of her own; while she smelled of crushed pineneedles, sweet sap and bee-honey, his scent reminded her of cold winds and harsh winters, of the sparse trees of the mountains. She started when her tail brushed his. His fur was soft, thick, pleasant to the touch. She quickly swept her banner to the other side, embarassed. Get a grip, Kyrie, she reprimanded herself, you've only just met the guy. Don't be an idiot. Don't be your sister. It was then that Ragnar decided to speak, to ask her where she came from. She smiled, eyes sparkling slightly at the thought of her home. Itwasn't much, but until now it was all she'd ever known. "Jeg kommer fra Norden, vekk opp med isbjørner og lynx. Jeg var i skogene, hjemmen vår var veldig stor og vi hadde mye land." It was only after she'd finished speaking that she realised she'd told this stranger about her home in the past tense. True, she wasn't going back, but... had she moved on already? So fast? It was her home, wasn't it? Her birthplace. The place where she'd grown up. Where she'd learned to hunt, fight, fish... "Og du?" she interrupted herself, breaking out of the spiral of depressing thoughts and memories. "Du kommer fra fjellene, ikke sant?" His stockier, slightly short-bodied build and howl had given her reason to suspect that he was one of the mountains, but she couldn't be sure. There was a level of variation in every subspecies of wolf up there; she was among the leaner, faster and more agile of the forest-dwelling wolves, who were known to be lean, fast and agile anyway. But her father and sister were built more like this brute before her; muscled and thick-pelted, with the ability to suffer the severe cold. She'd only encountered a few of the mountain-dwellers and only one coast-dweller, although her back had close connections with those of the Arctic ice and snow and therefore she made contact with more than a few of these icy creatures. In fact, both her mother and father had been of Arctic descent. || fae || young adult || || Warrior Angel || |