Mr Misfortune / Private / Iskalder & Cerys

give me time and give me space

For the first time in a long time, Iskalder doesn't have much to say. There's a yawning chasm of silence that stretches from the now eldest son of Gidal, miles and miles long, fathoms deep. That sort of realization sinks in not unlike an anchor strapped to his hocks, pulling him into depths he cannot possibly hope to escape from. There's bitter comfort in the fact that he is not the oldest, Ualda has that terrible burden thrust upon her now, and for all the absence he knows stretches between them, he's fitful with the urge to try and close it. But that is a struggle for another time.

The encampment in the southern fringes is stifling in all the wrong ways. There's a paltry, pitiful amount of solace and gratitude to be found, especially now that he's on the precipice of an awakening he never envisioned. Tired faces marred with tired lines and scars stare at him, some talk but he can't decipher their words. There's cotton in his ears, or perhaps is apathy has decided to mute his auditory perception. Lathering on the layers in thick, suffocating coats. Not that he minds, he realizes, he has nothing constructive to offer them anyway.

This lethargy aches, stings in a way not unlike a blade against supple flesh, but decidedly foreign as it twists through his ribcage and squeezes his inside with gleeful malice.

So he leaves the main gaggle of familiar faces, crimson gaze instead searching for something — someone.

Ashilde hugs his side, her small painted frame huddled beneath a bear pelt five times her size, keeping the drizzle that had long soaked Iskalder's unruly locks slick against neck from drenching her too. Her usual bubbly demeanor has dampened into something more restrained, but she fidgets beneath it, unsure and uncomfortable of this new reality. Too young to know any better, but old enough to know that everything isn't as it used to be.

Together they trek, over the damp grass, snow and hilly incline. It's a quiet spot far enough from the main encampment to afford privacy, a breath of fresh air and a chance to unwind. Iskalder has seen some of the younger, and troubled members of the Clan use it. Bright specks of lilac and violet bloom between splashes of white, orange and yellow. Crocus' beginning their tepid bloom and the Raider takes a moment to simply take in the green before his ruby gaze drifts to the children also frolicking below. Nudging Ashilde's side playfully with his horned head, mindful of the rocky horn he sports.

'Hey!' Is her squeaked retort, but she's grinning while she nudges back, her attempts humorous in their attempt to move his great bulk. He plays along, feigning a stumble to the side. "Why don't you go play with your cousins?" He suggests, head tilted to gaze at his rambunctious niece and nephew. It's not a hard bargain to drive, his daughter is fond of her cousins, so she goes all high pitched shriek and mock charge while he dares to turn his attention to the other figure privvy to the moment. Cerys.

They've not spoken much, he supposes there's too much and nothing at all to say about everything. He's known for his bullheaded and fickle tendencies, a penchant for actions over words, a brat if he's feeling particularly honest. Not something many would want to waste breath on at the best of times. Cerys is a pillar of patience and deliberate words, all fine boned and elegant in the face of the flanks' gruff exterior. Momentarily he wars between staying where he is and watching the three foals scuffle and flit away the daylight hours frivolously, before finally he closes the distance between him and her.

"Room for another on the foal watch?" He asks in lieu of a greeting, once he's worked through the knot that forms in his throat.