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AW! <3

A dramatic tumble, and hooves pounding the earth with fierce rhythm as they fled -- such was the lasting impression left by the failed hunt of the young man with the black-tipped ears.

He had been so clumsy, the poor soul -- a mere boy, inexperienced and green, yet so swollen with pride that he had believed himself capable of bringing down a great antlered male alone.

AAARRGH! Just my luck! he had muttered, his voice still edged with the sharpness of youth, echoing faintly among the unnaturally crumbling and half-buried remnants of a civilization -- perhaps more advanced, or simply more deft of hand.

Tsshh. With a heavy sigh, he dropped his weight to the ground, shifting to one side to scratch the base of his ear while casting a watchful eye around. After the thunder of the elk and his harem had faded, only a deathly silence lingered beneath the canopy.

Scents still drifted in and out on the air, yet none stirred the young man’s interest -- not yet.

Only he remained now, alone with the sting of his failure, which he had no choice but to swallow. The will to hunt had left him for the day, even as his stomach growled and buzzed with insistent hunger.

Snagging this, bc I've been dying to write with you ;;

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After a long journey down the peaks she'd marked at her people's burial site, snow and jagged mountainside opened to meadows and forest. Dense, but not as daunting as her homeland. She takes to exploring it with ease; the white raven stalking through rows of pine.

The thunder of hooves beckons her. A stampede, more like; a stag leading his harem through the forest of old. She'd been tempted to give chase herself, but she was rather interested in the predator that had failed their hunt...

Svalla finds a boy pouting. Mourning the loss of his lunch. With a rumble of laughter, she reveals herself with a flag of her tail. Miss your mark, cub? She couldn't help but tease the young man. He reminds her of herself, when she was young and reckless.

Although, she'd never been this lousy of a hunter.

Pouting isn't going to catch you lunch, child. You aren't even going to give chase? She asks as she takes a seat, watching him with sharp, knowing eyes.

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Yeees! ;u;

A child? She had called him a child.
A woman draped in white, a snowy owl etched with scars—ghostly remnants of the epic from which she’d probably emerged.
The young man—the boy—cleared his throat, quietly struck by the presence she commanded. Though tall, it was not her height that made her formidable, but the sheer force of her aura: dominant, untamed, irrepressibly wild.

A man. I’m a man! He straightened, head held high, tail arched proudly above his haunches. There was arrogance in it, and fervor too—that blind confidence of youth, untested by the true weight of life.
And I wasn’t pouting! he added sharply, a detail that, to him, mattered deeply.

I—… The boy with the black-tipped ears fumbled for words. An excuse, perhaps. An explanation to offer the white-cloaked inquisitor.

No. I won't chase it.But nothing came, so he settled for the truth. I’m alone. They’re far away now. That big elk would’ve torn me in half! It had to be acknowledged. You didn’t survive at that age, alone, by charging in blindly—or by failing to respect your own boundaries.

I guess you would’ve taken him down in one bite, huh? There it was again—that flicker of arrogance, still clinging to the edges of a boyish voice. A half-smile tugged at his lips, eyes glinting with mischief. Cleverness, or the illusion of it. But beneath the smirk, something softer stirred: a glimmer of admiration, the curiosity of one who longed to know.
What could this wild woman do?
Could she bring down an elk?
Slice through a bear?
Hold her ground against cougars?

All bravado and no common sense—this man was hardly anything but! With another bout of laughter, Svalla's eyes of ice gleam with mirth. Those are words a boy parading as a man would utter, cub. Her grin is sharp.

He's still green around the ears, teeming with false pride and eager eyes. With the slightest tilt of her head, she judges him. Large for a boy but too soft for a man. There's a liveliness to him; one a man in a world as harsh as this would've lost long ago. He is a boy who wishes to grew up far too quickly.

But, alas, she lets him keep his pride. Or, at least, she didn't wish to viciously wound it.

A good hunter doesn't go for the bull. It is brave, but it is stupid. She mused with a roll of her shoulders. She rather enjoys this cub! He is vivacious, if only a bit dense. He'd make a find hunter should he have the skill.

Her grin broadens, though it remains wolffish. She rises to stand and step closer, narrowed eyes cast in the direction the herd had fled. You thunder too loud. Too arrogant. These are not actions of a man. Svalla chides with a tilted chin. She stares down at him, past the ridge in her muzzle.

He aims to stroke her pride. She allows it, though rebukes; That is because I've mastered the hunt, cub. You say you are a man...

She moves past him with a taunt of her tail, her stance inviting. Then prove it. We will hunt, or you will starve.

She hadn’t exactly been gentle with him—but far less severe than what the young man, the cub, might rightfully have earned. Each time she referred to him as a child, each time she pressed on his status as merely a boy, the lad’s black ears folded to either side of his head, as though her words came crashing down, heavy and inescapable, atop his skull.

Yet he was not one to wallow, to brood, or to grumble. The wild lady was offering him a chance—a chance to prove that he was indeed a man, and that a mere pair of balls between his legs did not suffice to make one. That chance, he would seize without hesitation.

Cocky, he had fallen in step behind the snowy owl lady, a mischievous gleam flickering in his eye. His pride had been struck squarely, and like many bold and brash young cubs, he had walked straight into the snare of words.

Lady snowy owl, best be ready to call me sir! he declared, still radiant with confidence, his tongue moving far swifter than his feet. He still moved like a wolf pup, constantly alert for the slightest cue from the adults that might remind him of his place. But, as with all the young, he tested the boundaries—he boasted, he strutted, he performed.

Yet group hunting was another matter entirely. He was unprepared for it. All he recalled of the art of coordinated tracking were the dull lessons from his mother and the long-winded teachings of the tribe’s elders.

So, what will it be for you, my lady? A haunch of venison? A fine squirrel assortment? Perhaps a bit of boar tripe? he teased with a grin, already reciting the menu with amused arrogance.

Lady snow owl. Svalla barks a laugh at this title, for she is far from a lady. With a wolffish grin, she leads their journey, following the hoof prints carved into mud by the herd he'd spooked. Further down the valley they'd be; hopefully calm by now, though surely alert.

So eager to earn your title. Have patience, or all your hunts will end in failure. She mused as she strode. Confident are her steps, fluid but strong. Meanwhile, he clambers beside her with a youthful gleam in his eye and a pep in his step.

These forests and old and they are wild; it reminds her, bitter sweetly, of her home. Her mountain, her old forests, her old range. She carves through it like a blade, until the pine's begin to thin and the trail they follow calms. Distantly, a bugle rings.

His mindless chatter is grating as it is amusing. Allmóðir gefi mér þolinmæði. (Great mother, grant me patience.) The wildling muses in her natal tongue, before she veers in her step to swing low and nip at his hocks.

Let's see if you can catch something first. She rivaled with a chuckle. Then, another nip, so their pursuit may quicken. Show me how you stalk, cub. If you frighten the herd again, I might just eat you instead. A tease, though she pairs it with a toothy smile.