Ylfing Lore

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Thank you kindly. WIP.

The frozen north has long been known for its ferocious inhabitants. Everything has to fight to survive in such an inhospitable environment; no creature big or small can be ignorant to the thin line between life and death. Vicious and unyielding, all who wish to call it home must also embody these traits.

To outsiders, it has taken on an almost mythic quality—a constant kill or be killed, a desire for bloodshed. While this may be the case among some loners and packs, anyone who has spent time here knows that recklessness will get you killed. Caution is the true definition of survival. Never trust in your perceived safety—and sometimes, that means neutralizing a threat before it can show its full potential.

Since times of old Ylfing has called the tundra their home, passing on the lessons needed to survive, but it hasn't always thrived. The right knowledge isn't enough to defend against the might of nature. As Ylfing rebuilds, it is taking these old lessons in combination with new beliefs.

Table of Contents

At the core of Ylfing's beliefs is a struggle between order and chaos. They believe the world was created from the corpse of Ymir, a primeval wolf from whom the jötnar descended, the embodiment of chaos and antithesis of their own creators, the Æsir. Their gods created order from disorder, sustaining and enforcing the cosmos to which they belong. But while they shaped the world with their own aims and ideals, they could not change its inherent nature from the flesh of which it was born. As such, to Ylfing the character of the world around them matches that of the jötnar—mighty, yes, but tending towards destruction and disorder. Any wolf who has spent time in the frozen lands where they make their home would not contest this worldview. It cares not for the loyalty of the creatures who continue to try to inhabit it, ambivalent to their survival.

And so, when they struggle against the might of nature, they do not blame the Æsir, but instead look to them for guidance and intervention to create order, to manipulate the world as they did in their best interest. One of the main ways they seek the favor of their gods is through sacrifice, which is the cornerstone of their most important celebration: the spring equinox. Every year a sacrifice is made of a male of every local prey item—including a wolf. While also celebrating autumn, the beginning of summer, and midwinter, the extent of the celebrations—and the sacrifices made—are minor in comparison to spring. They also place a strong value on visions and dreams, which they believe is one manner in which their gods or guides known as fylgjur can communicate and reveal fates.

In Ylfing society, they are known as a clan rather than a pack, and their leader is the chieftain. The Ylfing identity is less about one singular pack and centered more around bloodlines and a shared cultural identity. Even wolves who leave the pack are still considered Ylfing, and multiple packs regardless of linking bloodlines would still be considered Ylfing if they share the same beliefs and customs. The chieftain (Drótinn, or Dróttning for a she-wolf)  is not viewed as infallible, someone to be blindly followed. While they hold the key decision making power and guide the clan, if they are self-serving in their ambitions the clan will abandon or depose them. A leader without followers is no leader at all, and the wolves of Ylfing have no qualms about seeking better opportunities on their own. That being said, the wolves of Ylfing are anything but disloyal. Their honor and pride mean they want the best for themselves and their clan, and will settle for nothing less. Their ideal image of a chieftain is one who will put themselves at equal stakes as the rest of the clan and whom they would gladly lay down their life for or alongside.

Succession for the title of chieftain is largely a free for all, but that isn't to say it's disorganized. While it is not uncommon for it to follow a lineage, any member of Ylfng is eligible for the role.  As previously stated, they believe it is traits and values that make a wolf equipped to lead, not birthright. Typically a successor is prepared for the role before the death of a current chieftain, but challenges can be made and it falls to who the clan chooses to support. To be eligible to take up the mantel of chieftain they must defeat a bear, revered for their strength and wisdom, and will wear its pelt as a symbol of their status.

Besides the chieftain, scouts (Spejari) are seen as the most honorable members of the clan. They must be well rounded in their skills because of the important service they provide, bringing back resources from far and wide not only in material forms, but in the form of knowledge through their encounters in varying environments and with other wolves and packs. Only the best suited are chosen for the role, with the decision largely up to the current scouts as to who they wish to pass their knowledge on to. When a scout's time is nearly up, or when they desire to retire, a pup is chosen very young to begin the important training. Retirement, however, is uncommon, with the role usually maintained for life given the importance of having an experienced scout.

Hunters (Veiðiulfr/Veiðiylgr) are the backbone of the clan, without whom they could not survive. Most of the wolves in Ylfing are hunters, but not all are viewed equally. The most successful hunting parties garner the most respect and recognition, creating a healthy competition between them. The hunting parties largely govern themselves, with minor oversight of the chieftain. If they find one of their members to be inadequate, it is their decision to remove them. When multiple hunting parties have openings available, the most successful gets first choice on their replacement, taking priority even before the scouts. Familial relationships and lineages are common among the various hunting parties, but not required. Each party has its own identity and requirements, as well as its own leader (Forulfr/Forylgr).

The læknir ("healer"), or herbalist, is a new one for the clan. Traditionally undermined, it is considered a female role, but it is gaining acknowledgement for its importance. Like scouts, herbalists typically serve for the entirety of their life, taking on an apprentice preferably at least a year or two before their passing. It is considered auspicious for the herbalist to have a red or white coat due to the association of those colors with the healing goddess Eir.

Pupsitters (Húnveri, "pup protectors") are typically ex-hunters, but occasionally come from other roles that have retired. As all roles are instated for life, it is a wolf's voluntary choice to retire to pupsitting, unless they are forced due to injury. Occasionally, a puppy that is not chosen for another role will be given the opportunity to live out its life as a pupsitter if the role is needed, but will often then go on to fill a hunting role when a spot becomes available.

Mentorship is an exclusive role, with only three wolves at a time allowed to become a Meistari. They may come from any prior role and are chosen based on their skill and experience. Wolves that retire who represent the best in either strength, speed/agility, or wisdom/smarts are chosen as mentors instead of pupsitters. However, they may be retired into a pupsitter role if a new wolf retires who can better embody these traits.

Historically, Ylfing was male led, with a heavy importance on physical prowess. That legacy is still visible in its original members, large framed wolves made even more imposing with their thick winter coats. The largest and strongest wolves were seen as the most fit to survive, and so came to fill important roles within the clan. Rather than being earned through merit or delegated through specific ability, it was their tradition that any role could be challenged, and if defeated it would be relinquished to the winner.

Any wolves that did not fit this mold, either by natural affinity, age, or injury/disease, were looked down on. Skills like herbalism—the antithesis of the traits they valued—were not supported, and it would be unheard of to see a male in the role. Even the magic and mystery of the Dreamlands was shunned. They did not associate with visibly lunar touched wolves, and any wolf within the clan who was revealed to have the ability to traverse the Dreamlands was exiled.

The leader, the hunters, the scouts—the ones viewed as having a meaningful and important role in the clan—took priority, but a wolf whose legacy was once viewed as meaningful did not continue to receive this treatment. The infirm and injured were left to fend for themselves. Without the support to provide a sufficient herbalist, anything that could not be recovered from naturally was essentially a death sentence. Even those who supported the clan until they were too old and frail to continue, or who managed to recover from an injury or disease but could not return to their role—the mentors and pupsitters with knowledge and skills to pass—would be the first to starve when food was scarce. In the end, this would create the perfect storm that nearly led to Ylfing's downfall.

A particularly heavy year of infighting saw many wolves in new roles, destabilizing the clan before an especially brutal winter. The clan could not come together efficiently to support itself, leading to further dissent that only increased the tragedy that nature wrought upon them. Out of the few who survived the devastation, an unlikely wolf rose to the challenge of recovering the clan—Ýrr, a she-wolf of hardly a year old. This did not go uncontested, but she won the right fairly in a fight by Ylfing's own standards. Still, the clan was split over the change, and some wolves were too stuck in their ways to accept her as their leader, deciding to take their chances going their separate way than staying in the clan. The revival and renewal of Ylfing begins with the journey of the dedicated few who remained.

Ylfing's home is deep in the alpine tundra, a home which they refer to as the Frostmýrr, essentially meaning "frozen marsh," near the border to the Glacier region, known to them as the Ísbreiðr, or "broad/expanding ice." To the south, the Taiga is known as the Snæviðr, or snow forest, and the Coniferous Forest is the Fýri, or fir forest. The river marks the end of what is considered familiar, with the exception of the Mountain region, collectively referred to as the Upplönd, or "upward lands." The Deciduous Forest and Riparian Woodland are differentiated as Eikviðr—"oak forest," compared to the firs in Coniferous—and Fenviðr—"fen forest"—respectively. The two graslönd, grasslands, are differentiated by their terrain. The Grasslands are Hóllvangr, "hilly field," and the Prairie is Sléttr, essentially meaning "flat/even." The Desert is Sandhaf, literally "sand ocean," and the Swamp, named from their own home, is simply Mýrr. Finally, the unfamiliar Rainforest is thusly named Regnviðr, literally "rain forest."

Born in early autumn, an icy fist already gripped her home and pushed her pack to the edge. Her youth is a blur of winter nights—for even autumn and spring are winter in the Frostmýrr. She chooses not to dwell on these memories, but during some nights, especially in the everlasting night when the sun bids its seasonal farewell, the memories choose to visit her.

It's easier that way, without the clarity of wakefulness to reflect on the awful reality of what her mind was too young to understand. It was easier to only remember the cold and her own distressed mewls than to remember the mewls around her growing quiet, writhing bodies going still and cold as her belly was finally able to feel warm and full. It was easier to remember the gnawing pain in her stomach clouding her mind as she tried to learn and train than it was to think about the guilt gnawing at her heart at the sight of her mentors whose long fur could not hide the bones jutting out under their skin. When the sun finally showed its face, it was easier to remember her awe than the  tragedy it illuminated. Only the barest skeleton of a pack remained, ill equipped to take advantage of summer's short bounty.

Ýrr had always been a quiet pup, choosing to observe from a distance, and while this was often misinterpreted as meekness, she was sharp—she didn't miss a thing, and despite her youth she understood the failings of her people. She worked hard in her adolescence, her dedication to take on any task and learn all she could in hopes to make a difference earning her a reputation for compliance. While Ylfing could not see her for who she truly was, she saw through them to the path of destruction their chieftain, Jökull, led them down.

She was not the first to see it, and so too the lives she witnessed being claimed in her youth were not all taken by nature. No one could defeat him, the fearsome Hvítulfr í Norðum—White Wolf of the North. Clinging to tradition, he was blind to the damage it was doing. Ýrr watched him closest of all, every fight and every action, getting close to learn from him and learn of him—what he thought, how he thought, and if his mind could be changed.

It was as a chill began to enter the air once more that she knew she could not coax him into change, and so she put what she had learned into action to best the White Wolf of the North. Red streaked through the snow white fur of his throat, but the bite was shallow.

"I do not wish to kill you," Ýrr growled as Jökull drew himself unsteadily to his feet.

"Then you have not won," He snarled in return.

"You are at your end, Jökull. Step aside gracefully so that Ylfing may live on."

"Gracefully? I would rather die than be shamed by your mercy."

"Ylfing still needs you, even if not as a leader."

"And you think you are what they need? A she-wolf? A yearling? Winter is upon us. You hadn't yet left the pup den last winter, and you think you're prepared to survive it? I will not follow you into an icy death."

"Nor I you," Ýrr retorted coldly.

"Then let them decide," Jökull's white eyes roved over the stunned wolves of Ylfing.

"I will follow no she-wolf." It was no surprise to Ýrr when Kaldi was first to react and step up to Jökull's side. The imposing gray scout was the closest to the chieftain, and second only in status within the clan. But it still struck fear in her core that this could all be for naught if Ylfing refused to recognize her. Ýrr was hardly regarded as an adult, and most of who remained had grown up alongside Jökull. As she watched their best hunting party, the only one who survived in entirety, fill the ranks against her she almost didn't notice Kalda, the second scout, silently take a stance beside her. Kaldi's sister, she had the strength and status to join him, but regarded her brother with disapproval from the opposite side.

In the end, the three remaining hunters joined her. Mógils and Mjaðveig were the oldest and youngest—second to  Ýrr—who remained, all that was left of their hunting party. Mógils had been Forulfr of Úlfheðnar, an imposing but aging finisher, frightening at first glance but as down to earth as his brown coat. Mjaðveig, his mated pair, was small to Ylfing standards, aiding her role as a chaser. The color of her fur was like snow mixed with honey, and she was just as sweet, if not somewhat timid and people-pleasing. Halldís, on the other hand, was cold and unreadable with slate gray fur, a stalker and only surviving member of her hunting party.

"We need to work together to overcome winter's challenge," Ýrr protested, hoping she sounded steadier than she felt. "You preach tradition, and yet you refuse to recognize my authority as chieftain."

"I concede the title to you, but our blood makes us Ylfing whether we follow you or not. We are still Ylfing in any pack, under any chieftain. And as members of Ylfing, we reserve the right to follow whomever we see fit to lead us."

"Then you will leave this territory."

"So be it."

"There will be no home in this clan for you here if you choose to return."

"No," Jökull regarded the she-wolf with a sly expression, "I don't expect there will. When the sun returns, it will warm your graves."

Ýrr could only growl low in her throat in rebuttal as she watched the wolves she once regarded as family disappear into the snowy landscape. What could she possibly say when he was echoing her own fears? How could she convince him, convince Ylfing, that they would be okay if she hadn't convinced herself?

It was with a weary mind and body that Ýrr settled down that autumn night, wrestling with thoughts of the future she had begun as the newly anointed chieftain. There was fear there—always fear, a feeling she had known all her young life—but that was not what kept her awake. While the ever present embers of fear may have flared to life at the approaching winter, the reality was, as she had come to know it, that fear was just background noise, a distraction. Fear was the wind that whipped across the barren Frostmýrr, a reality of life—and potential hindrance. The wind could disperse scents, disturb snowfall to cover tracks, but if you knew how to combat it, it couldn't make a hunt impossible.

Ýrr knew how to combat fear. She knew that no matter how much fear was telling her the future of Ylfing was impossible, she could not give up. It would have to be the cold and hungry death she feared that stopped her, not the fear itself. As her exhausted mind devised plans she began to fall into a fitful sleep, and suddenly she was… falling.

A nightmare, she thought as the earth seemed to swallow her whole. But this was not the flashes from her youth she was used to plaguing her sleep. And stranger still, her mind felt awake, albeit dizzy. It took a moment for it to clear as she realized she never landed, but no longer felt like she was moving.

Ýrr tried to open her eyes, unsure if this dream would allow her, expecting to be suspended in inky darkness. She found that just as she was in control of her mind, she was able to control her body. What she felt was solid ground under her paws, a sensation her mind knew and could understand—but what she saw it could not comprehend. She found herself alone in a world she couldn't decide to view as beautiful or unsettling. The darkness was profound, but this she was no stranger to. The full moon provided enough light to see her surroundings, uncannily similar to her Frostmýrr home, but she could not recognize her location. While she knew the truth of the biome, that under its barren veneer is a vibrant ecosystem, this Frostmýrr literally glowed with life—lichens seemed to pulse with living light, and bogs not yet frozen over glittered vibrantly. What she thought at first was snow was an ethereal blue dust that hung in the air, swirling in the wind.

This is my future, Ýrr told herself as she watched the patterns in the wind. My pack is gone. I've failed. Winter is approaching and I am alone in a home that is not my home, an alien world with a familiar face that I could not master and will consume me.

Her heart ached. She was raised to believe in a predestined future, one able to be revealed through dreams, and every fiber of her being needed this not to be the truth. As these thoughts ran through her head she realized that not all of the strange dust moved with the wind, and what she thought were clusters of the substance were actually strange orbs. They swirled together in an almost playful manner, seeming to anticipate the wind to take it for a ride, and she couldn't help but wonder if they weren't anticipating it but actually influencing it.

Realizing they were spotted, or perhaps just spotting her, the orbs approached Ýrr suddenly. Her fur bristled on instinct, shifting some of the dust that had settled on her back and turned it blue, but they did not attack. In fact, they seemed friendly, pulsing and twirling around her almost like a dance. Then, just as suddenly, they jetted off into the sky.

A more primal awareness in her grew uneasy that their flight felt more like fleeing, and she turned to be shocked by the presence of another wolf. It was unlike any other wolf she had seen, its shaggy red coat painted in blue and its eyes glowing with the same mystically beautiful light that possessed this world. Though he had approached her, he seemed just as startled by her presence, fur now bristling to match her own.

Strangely, she didn't feel afraid. It may be a nightmare, but it was still a dream, she couldn't be hurt. Perhaps the adrenaline of a fight would be enough to wake her. But more than that, here she was presented with the outcome she dreaded most, a future her whole heart rejected, and now before her was this strange and magical wolf.

"Are you a fylja?" She asked him, and the question clearly caught the wolf off guard. Her fear spiked from his confusion, and she could hear it in her voice as she implored, "Please, tell me what I need to do to avoid this future. This can't be my future."

The strange wolf's long tail whipped the air and his fur settled as he spoke, "This isn't your future. It's only temporary."

Ýrr was flooded with a relief so strong she thought her limbs would give out.

"Thank you. Please, tell me what I need to do. I can't let my home become this," She asked again, and the wolf seemed to struggle to answer this time, a forlorn look of longing in his glowing blue eyes.

"This is not your home, not like this. I… don't understand how it works, but… you'll wake up."

Wake up? His words didn't make sense to her, and then suddenly they did. Of course! This is the future I fear, but it's not my future. If all we believe in is this outcome, it's what we'll bring on ourselves. We need to wake up from our fear to believe in and manifest a better future.

With a jolt she was suddenly finding herself awake in her den, and Ýrr knew sleep would not find her again as her mind buzzed from her dream encounter and its implications for Ylfing's future.

As Ýrr addressed what was now truly her clan for the first time, she had some recognition that it was not with the authority she would have liked. Her body ached from her battle and some wounds still oozed. She made an effort to appear sharp despite the limited sleep she had the night before. Anxiety and a new conviction warred within her. She knew five wolves was hardly a pack and would not be enough to survive the winter. She challenged Jökull because she knew changes had to be made to ensure their survival, but yesterday's divide left her wary of the agreement necessary to exact that change.

"I was visited by a fylja last night in my dreams." She began, and was bolstered by the hope she could see in their faces. Even without yet knowing the message, they knew as she did that this was a good omen, a sign that the gods were on their side. "I was shown our home, but it was foreign to my eyes, a wasteland desperate to consume, to satiate its hunger. He told me that if we are complacent to fear, that is what we will face. But it does not have to be our future. He said that is not our home. While I may have disagreed with Jökull on many things, he was right when he said that Ylfing is a people, not a land. And so, while it pains me greatly, I believe it is in our best interest to wait out the winter in the Upplönd to the south until we are back on our feet."

"You made a stand for this land and now you want to abandon it?" Halldís growled. "If you felt that way you should have left it to Jökull and let us remain in the only home we've known."

"Just as I could not make them stay, I cannot make any of you go. But I believe the gods are urging us to do this."

"And what if they change their mind when spring comes and there are no sacrifices waiting for them?" Halldís retorted.

"If we stay here, we won't be alive come spring to celebrate the equinox," Ýrr said coldly but calmly. "We can return come spring for the celebration and reevaluate the decision. The fylja said it was only temporary."

"We don't know these lands," Mjaðveig pointed out nervously. "We don't know what to hunt, how to hunt, nor do we have a full team."

"I'm not as I was in my youth. I may not be familiar with these lands below the tree line, but I know our home, as do we all." Mógils looked to each of his fellow hunters. "We know what it requires to hunt here, and I know that I am not up to the task."

Ýrr's heart warmed for a moment for the words of the gentle giant, not only for his support but for doing so in a way that shouldered the responsibility rather than pushing against his fellow hunters who she knew, frankly, were not up to the task either—not with only three of them. "You may not personally be familiar with the Upplönd, but there is one among us who is." As she turned her icy eyes to Kalda, the others' eyes followed. The large she-wolf remained in silence for a long moment before stating, matter of fact, "The winters are less harsh, the prey more plentiful."

"These lands are the only lands I have ever known as home, and the only ones I will ever consider home. I do not wish to bid them farewell forever, nor do I believe we have to. I am ready to do everything it takes to prepare us to return here, I promise you all." Ýrr spoke with conviction, and gradually murmurs of agreement—albeit some more reluctant than others—rippled through the clan. She nodded, mostly to herself, and readied herself to lead. "Then come, let us begin our future."

Ylfing chose to settle deep in the Upplönd, and the journey there tired Ýrr more than she expected. Though her wounds healed, the fatigue in her body never seemed to leave. While the chill in her bones was lesser here, she thought it must be the stress of winter nearly upon them. On their journey they encountered a friendly adolescent pup from a foreign land, unwanted by her pack. With the snow already falling so heavily she could understand the sentiment; another mouth to feed could make or break the pack. And yet Ýrr found she could not leave her to face the winter on her own. She had the strangest, ever so faint blue markings on her fur that reminded her of her dream, and so she felt the encounter must be fate. She dubbed her Ilmer, and the fleet-footed pup was quickly taken under Mjaðveig's wing, becoming the pup that she and Mógils could not have on their own and proving to be an asset for the much needed rebuilding of the clan's hunting party.

It was not long before there were changes in Ýrr's body that she could not ignore, but it was Kalda that addressed it.

"You're pregnant," The scout spat the words like they were poison. "The worst of winter has not yet begun. You urge that we be smart, be prepared, and yet you make the hare-brained decision to fall pregnant now?"

"This was not how I wanted things to be!" Ýrr snarled in return. "He wanted me to be his mate, to continue Ylfing…"

"What of Mjaðveig? I know they struggled with her infertility, but now that those two have that pup to dote on…"

"Not Mógils, gods no. He's like a father to me."

"Then who?" Kalda huffed, clearly in impatient disbelief, before it dawned on her. "Jökull."

Ýrr did not confirm, but she did not need to. She paced in anxiety as Kalda continued, "I was wrong to disagree with taking that pup in. She will make a good chaser to support the clan rather than strain it. But newborns? We don't have the resources. We're barely scraping by as it is."

"You think I don't know that?" Ýrr's voice was full of pain rather than anger, and Kalda simply shook her head.

"Their blood will be on his paws."

Her snow white pups were born on the first of winter, a day Ylfing prays fervently for the support of their gods for their survival, and Ýrr prayed extra hard for the survival of her litter. When the death of the runt came, she numbed her pain by telling herself that this was expected—a fact of life, especially at this time of year. But when the litter was halved in the days that followed she began to wonder if Halldís was right and they were too far for the gods to hear them.

She had no chance to mourn, acutely aware that she was now the biggest burden her clan faced. Halldís squabbled with the other hunters and they were not as successful as she had hoped. Ýrr knew she needed to pull her own weight to defend their new home, to hunt what she could. It was with great pain that she left her pups to fulfill her duties, and with greater pain that she returned to an empty den, the remnants of blood and the smell of predators all that remained.

She did not speak to her clan for a whole moon cycle, withdrawing in her loss, going through the motions of the duties she needed to uphold. They may not quite be thriving, but the clan was surviving. Things could be maintained as they were. That was all she could ask for and all the gods agreed to give. Kalda had been right, and so Ýrr was surprised most of all when the scout returned with an adolescent boy pup and a tale of a land of water and a pack of fire—something this young wolf certainly embodied with his red fur and blue eyes. Ýrr named him Éldi and took to training him herself, seeing so much of herself in this smart and capable pup, and she could feel the warmth of his innocence thaw her heart as the world around them began to welcome spring.

As she had promised, the approaching spring meant a journey home to celebrate their survival. And once again, their journey led them across a lone she-wolf with unusual faint blue markings.

"I mean you no harm." The she-wolf said gently but cautiously as she was surrounded. Ýrr urged them to back down.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Melusine," The she-wolf answered, "May I know to whom I'm speaking?"

"Where are you from?" Ýrr pressed, ignoring the question.

"I have had many homes, though the mountains are where I was born. But clearly you are not from here."

"I am Ýrr of Ylfing. We are on a journey home, and I believe we were fated to encounter you. The gods have guided us to you for a reason."

Melusine cocked her head, confused but intrigued by these strange wolves. "And what has led you to believe that?"

"Your coat."

"My coat?"

"Those markings." Ýrr gestured as well to Ilmer with her matching pattern, but when asked about them the young wolf had never been able to give much answer besides that her father had them too.

Melusine nodded slowly, "We hail from the same pack, but we are not each other's kin, if that is what you're seeking."

Ýrr shook her head quickly. "No, it is not. I had a dream where I was visited by a Fylja in the form of a red wolf, but it was painted blue. Not in the same way as your fur, but still vibrant and unnatural. We were guided to her and she has proven integral to our clan's survival, and so you must be as well."

Melusine regarded her now with only a flat confusion. "A Pherris wolf. You encountered a Pherris wolf in the Dreamlands. You're lucky you were not harmed, they're known to be aggressive."

These words meant nothing to Ýrr and she struggled to process them, something Melusine seemed to pick up on. "Have you never heard of the Dreamlands? It can be a jarring experience at first, but I have not met anyone in my travels that is not at least familiar by name."

"Will you come with us? We can assure you safe passage. All I request is that you share what you know."

Melusine was quiet for so long that Ýrr did not expect her agreement, but she came to learn that she had been in search of a new pack to call home, and brought with her a knowledge of herbs that had been lost to Ylfing. On their journey north she shared tales of a mystery world that matched Ýrr's experience, accessible only in your dreams but very real. It was not, however, accessible to all, and the veil was thinner at certain times relating to the moon. Things could be brought between these worlds, and wolves may be changed by their experiences in it. Melusine referred to this as being lunar touched, the reason for her and Ilmer's markings—those born to lunar touched wolves can pass on these changes and thus the connection to this world. But she warned that was not all that could be carried back into our world, so too would any injuries from some less than friendly inhabitants. Chief among these were the Pherris creatures from the north, iron-smithers that violently defend and expand their territory. And while the description of their red fur and painted markings certainly matched the description of her believed Fylja, he didn't fit this feral picture.

Could their encounter have actually been meaningless? Even if he wasn't a Fylja, Ýrr found this hard to believe. Whatever it was, it had led to not just the survival of her clan, but it's growth. Even if it hadn't been what she had thought, she was certain this was still the influence of the gods. She was eager to celebrate them, and though the hunting was hard and would have filled many bellies, no one protested as the sacrifice was prepared. But they all grew wary as they approached the sacred location where the sacrifice was made and found the remains of fresh corpses already offered. Their scents still lingered, and she felt a rage light inside her at Jökull's familiar scent. In that moment of knowing he had lived, Ýrr wished that it was he whom they were offering as a sacrifice.

Ylfing's joy for spring and for being home never fully recovered after this finding, pointedly pretending to ignore the remnants of the ceremony as they performed their own, but all kept a watchful eye on their environment that suddenly seemed so bare and exposed. As night fell Ýrr was not the only one who could never quite allow themselves to rest peacefully, anxious for morning to come.

"We have a decision to make." Ýrr addressed the clan under the early light of dawn. "While the relief of summer is in sight, we are incomplete. We do not have a full hunting party to reap that bounty. With that, and in light of recent events, I believe it to be in our best interest not to remain."

It was a relief when the agreement came much quicker this time, but as they prepared to embark, Halldís stood apart. "I am choosing to remain in my home."

Ýrr regarded her for a long moment before nodding. "As is your right. I wish you luck."

Halldís did not return the sentiment as she left in what Ýrr still remembered was the direction back to the dens in which she was born. A den she too hoped to one day return.

Ylfing did not return to the Upplönd, instead staying closer to home in the Fýri, just below the border with the Snæviðr . It was a more difficult adjustment, but Éldi proved to be a better stalker than Halldís—not to mention more willing to work under Mógils—and while still short a chaser they performed much better together. Spring was much more bountiful here, and they learned that with that bounty meant that more packs called the forests their home. Without the need to compete for resources, and fewer natural geographic divisions than the Upplönd, many were much friendlier than they were accustomed to, as well as much larger and flourishing—though sometimes still beyond what they could manage. And so Ýrr found herself taking in two more pups, Sólver and Glœðir, both lunar touched and showing early promise as hunters.

As summer melted the last of the snow, Ylfing continued to grow. First was a lone wolf, Tulipa, whose strength and experience traveling made her fit to scout. Then three adolescents were brought into the clan, a brother and sister pair given the names Böðmóðr and Böðvildr, and another female given the name Lofnheiðr whose snow speckled coat reminded them of home. Bǫðmóðr in particular was seen as a good omen, his mix-matched eyes a sign of Óðinn, and so, they believed, a sign that their gods were still with them in these lands. And so, a year that began in fear ended in hope.

On the first night of her second year of life, Ýrr was startled by a familiar but nearly forgotten falling sensation, finding herself impossibly back in the Dreamlands. The coniferous forest where she made a home that wasn't a home felt all that more alien in the lunar light. While excited for the chance to explore the world, and now with Melusine to guide her and fill in gaps of knowledge, there was a melancholy ache as she knew it would be impossible for her to find the Pherris wolf she met if he did not call these forests his home. She wasn't sure what her goal was beyond meeting him again. To thank him? She had long ago accepted the reality of this world and that he was not a Fylja, but he had still played a vital role in the success of her pack.

And she could now begin to say that her pack was successful. They now had not one full hunting party, but a second taking form. Melusine, while their herbalist when her skills were required, proved to be a talented stalker, with the now grown pups under her direction: Böðmóðr and Böðvildr as chasers. Glœðir and Sólver were training to round out the party as its final chaser and finisher, but the two weren't taking to the roles as well as the red furred siblings. Glœðir had the skills to be a chaser, and even some promising strength for finishing, but while earnest in her intentions and commitment, she was easily distracted and slow on the uptake. The opposite could be said for Sólver. He was large and powerful for his young age, ideal as a finisher, and learned quickly when he put his mind to it—but getting him to commit to putting in the effort was another issue entirely.

Their original hunting party was now complete and had affectionately been given a name: Úlfheðnar, the name belonging to Mjaðveig and Mógils's former hunting party. The two were excited to see that legacy live on, even if they both were no longer part of it. Éldi remained as the stalker and Ilmer and Mjaðveig as chasers, now joined by Lofnheiðr who had come of age to fill in that missing role. However, Mógils's time as finisher and Forulfr for the complete party was short lived. Tulipa replaced him as finisher and Mjaðveig now became Forylgr. While the previous scout in training had the power needed for the role, her aggressive and solitary nature put her at odds with the rest of the hunting party.

But this unusual reworking came for a very particular reason—Ilmer was pregnant. It would be the first litter welcomed by the pack since Ýrr's, and all parties were determined not to let them meet the same fate. Ýrr had made a promise to the giant brown wolf that it would be his responsibility to protect the puppies, and she would ensure he would not go hungry for it as the pupsitters of Ylfing's past.

And so it was that Ilmer's puppies came shortly before the winter equinox, one little girl and one not so little girl, and just one boy—the runt. Only Ilmer dared to acknowledge him while the rest of the clan held their breath, expecting what they knew as an unspoken truth: a runt wouldn't survive the winter. Only Ýrr secretly held on to hope that his lucky mix-matched eyes would mean the gods would take care of this puppy.

And they did.

With Mógils to guard them, Ilmer could join the hunt to ensure the clan was taken care of, and since she was cared for, she could care for her pups. By mid-winter they were rambunctious and eager to learn from their mother, even the little runt. When spring came and the pups survived long enough to journey back to their homeland the clan finally released its collective breath, but they knew they faced new dangers with their return.

With the vitality of these pups and the celebration of spring coming around once more, Ýrr knew they would not return to the forest. Ylfing was still Ylfing wherever they called home, but it felt wrong to ask these pups to call a place home that they only see once a year. Ylfing had survived, thrived, and so the Upplönd had served its purpose. But while they may be prepared for the challenges of their homeland, that was no longer all they had to contend with. Ýrr knew they would not be lucky enough that the land would claim him. Jökull would not go down without a fight.

Ylfing left early that year to return to the Frostmýrr before the equinox, setting up camp outside the territory they previously called home. There was none of last year's joy to return home and celebrate, only a heavy air as they knew what they would have to face to reclaim their home. They had already confirmed that someone had taken up residence at the old den, and it was no stretch of the imagination who.

"We could find a new cave system to make our den," Mjaðveig said quietly as the young ones slept, but her anxiety spoke volumes.

"Or run them out. There needn't be such a great risk." Melusine's calm was only slightly betrayed by her own underlying concern.

"And live always looking over our shoulder? This isn't some other pack that will keep their distance if we keep ours. Jökull has been shamed. It will be personal," Kalda responded flatly.

"Things are different from when you all left these lands. As far as you know, you have the numbers, so if we make a show to pressure them out then—"

"Then we risk a massacre. Ilmer's pups will freeze. The yearlings' lives are over before they began," Ýrr interrupted Melusine's protest, looking into the other she-wolf's eyes intensely as she spoke. "This is not their fight. Our failure should not mark their end. If we don't return by dusk, lead them back to your land. Even if it won't be as Ylfing, give them a chance to start anew."

"You could start anew," Melusine insisted softly, but Ýrr shook her head.

"No, I cannot. That was never my purpose. I could have left and joined a new pack, but I did not. I did not want to start anew, I wanted Ylfing to start anew. I need to finish what I started all those moons ago." Her tone was sentimental but resolute and Melusine did not protest further, only watched as half of her new family left—Ýrr, Kalda, Tulipa, Mjaðveig, and Mógils. As their figures faded out of view she found herself quietly praying to their gods—no, they were hers now—for their safe return.

It felt natural for Ýrr to trace the familiar path to her den, something that brought a bittersweet feeling. It was her birthplace, where she became who she was. It was home. And yet it too was other. A place that held so much pain, something she knew was more to come. She thought she could see a similar emotion on Mógil's face. While she was sure it must be similar for Mjaðveig and Kalda, the latter, as always, was impossible to read, and the former's light fur was on end as she continuously eyed their surroundings.

Ýrr felt a pang of guilt and fear, and for a moment she had to question if she was making the right decision. Was she placing her burden on them? Leading them to their deaths for her own righteous anger? Was she the same as Jökull?

The she-wolf shook her massive head as if  the action could clear her thoughts. This wasn't personal. She was doing this for them, not herself.

Right?

The pack slowed and crouched as the cave formation came into view. The entrance was easy to miss if you didn't know where to look or what you were looking at, but they did. This was only the first entrance, the main one used, but by the stale scent trails nothing had come or gone recently. It was a relief at first. This was what they had hoped for, everyone settled inside, unexpecting. But just as quickly the reality of what that meant sunk in and Ýrr saw in flashes her last memories there, the suffering loss. How much death would those walls see? Would it ever end?

With this confirmation, Kalda, Mógils, and Mjaðveig dispersed to the other entrances—or exits—to complete their trap. Tulipa waited with Ýrr in silence until it was time to make their move. Ýrr was vaguely aware of the numbness in her paws as they crept toward the den and could just barely question beyond the blood rushing in her ears whether it was from the cold earth or the anxiety that threatened to overtake her.

Rather than tempering it, her fear amped up when they found the main cave—Eldaskáli, as they called it, the only cave large enough to house the whole pack back when it was a whole pack, which served as its main gathering place—was empty. Was she wrong? Were they not here? Had they left on a hunt, perhaps, in the early hours of the day and yet to return, and now she had put her people into the very trap she thought she set?

No, she thought desperately, trying to think beyond her rising panic. They had been using the caves, of that she was sure. Their scent was there, their tracks. But this cave was not in use. They passed through it, but if wolves were sleeping here, spending time here, the scent should be stronger. As a larger cave, it did not keep heat as well as close quarters… unless it had enough bodies to fill it. While not an answer to her immediate problem, it gave her some hope. If they were using a different part of the cave system, then their numbers must still be limited.

Ýrr found herself running in the wrong direction. While Tulipa did not know the caves by memory, they had gone over the layout with her and their intended path. Running was also not part of the plan—they would proceed with caution, stealth. Yet Ýrr was running away from the dens, and after a split second of confusion Tulipa was on her heels.

When she reached the hoard, Ýrr's heart hammered in her chest as she looked over its contents. Seven of nine sacrifices were prepared. All that was missing was a caribou bull… and a wolf. The she-wolf was running again, her paws knowing the way even while her mind was frozen.

"Ýrr," she could hear Tulipa calling her, but she sounded far away. Ýrr wasn't sure if it was her mind making it sound that way or if she was outrunning the other wolf. She didn't have time to think about it or look behind her. The cave system had various paths that led to smaller caves, the Veiðiskálar for their hunting parties and Húnskali for the pups and pupsitters, as well as the other hidden entrances.

Their scent was stronger in one of the hunters' dens and her suspicions were confirmed that that's what they were using. Their numbers could not exceed five, so they must have lost at least two wolves.

She skidded to a halt, caught between hoping for a moment they were there and panicking that her fears would ruin their plan, but she quickly realized that, while stronger, these scents were not recent either.

"Ýrr, what's going on?" Tulipa spoke in a hushed voice as she caught up, hackles raised as she picked up on her chieftain's anxiety.

"We have to find the others. We were wrong. I was wrong. They're not here." While she spoke with urgency, Ýrr felt as though she could hardly breathe, let alone carry through with any action.

"And they'll know we were," Tulipa finished the part Ýrr did not dare to speak into existence. Their scent would be all over. When they returned from their hunt, it would be obvious.

"We need to find the others," she repeated numbly and found her paws carrying her again. The entrance nearest Húnskali—or what used to be Húnskali, now long disused—was closest. It was the most well hidden, and also the most narrow, so no large predators could invade and prey upon their most vulnerable. However, in the event something did happen, it made for a quick escape route. Kalda cautiously stepped out of her hiding spot as the two she-wolves raced through the den.

"They're not here," Ýrr echoed the words that repeated in her head on a loop in time with her panicked pulse. "Find Mógils, then meet us. We'll go to Mjaðveig."

They parted as quickly as they had reconnected. Ýrr tried to shake her head clear again. They needed a plan. They could await their return, launch an assault at their re-entry, but any true surprise was gone. They'd know they were there, waiting. What if they tracked their scents back instead to Melusine, to the yearlings and Ilmer's pups awaiting their return?

Her thoughts stuttered short as she froze, mind and body, as her eyes took in the sight before her that made any planning unnecessary. No… obsolete. Their options were gone, and so too was Mjaðveig.

The she-wolf's pale fur was marred with red, her body a limp heap on the floor of the second largest tunnel. Her blood steamed in the cold air as if a visual representation of the life escaping her.

Ýrr struggled to take her eyes off her as grief roiled in her heart. As much as she blamed herself in that moment, the culprit of her death was still very much present. Jökull licked his lips slowly, like he was savoring the taste of her blood, as he waited for Ýrr's eyes to meet his. He was flanked by four other wolves, Kaldi's imposing bulk easily recognizable, all with Mjaðveig's blood on them. That Ýrr's guess at their numbers was correct gave no satisfaction, nor any of its previous hope. Five to one, Mjaðveig never stood a chance.

Grief threatened to flood her again as she imagined her last moments. As she had feared, they must have detected their scent and decided to take caution by using another entrance. Did they choose this for its purpose as a second main entrance? She wondered. Or did they check the others and recognize Mjaðveig as the weakest link?

While at first glance it made the most sense to send the smaller Mjaðveig through the narrow Húnskali opening, in their original plan, Ýrr had thought if any tried to escape it would be through a sneakier entrance, and so they would be guarded by the larger and more powerful Kalda and Mógils. Instead of protecting her, she had sentenced Mjaðveig to her death.

Yet it was clear the she-wolf had not run. If she had, perhaps the chaser could have reached them in time for them to fight by her side. Of course, she had no way of knowing they had been on their way to her. Against impossible odds she stood her ground and died a warrior's death. Looking over the other wolves, those she once called family, Ýrr could see one was heavily bleeding. Yes, the gentle Mjaðveig did not go down without a fight.

"I must say, I'm surprised. You survived." Jökull forced her attention to him by speaking, adding with a sly expression, "Well, not all of you."

Rage buried her grief but she fought to suppress it. She couldn't be reckless. They were at a disadvantage. She needed Kalda and Mógils to return. They were still down one, but four had better odds than two against five. While the width of the tunnel gave some limitations to face them head on, it would be easy for them to rush in and surround the two she-wolves, and then there would truly be nowhere to go.

"Come to beg for your life, for forgiveness?" Jökull's tone was almost playful, but Ýrr saw through it as he moved casually to step past Mjaðveig's body, the rest of the pack following as he closed in and fanning out around him to completely block the tunnel.

"Did Mjaðveig give you that impression?" She tried to keep her voice steady, cold, but it was clipped.

"I couldn't say. I crushed her throat before she could make a sound."

Ýrr's fur bristled as rage threatened to consume her again, but the satisfaction she could see it gave Jökull forced her to calm.

"As I should have done, rather than show you mercy."

"Is that what you did? Or were you just incapable of finishing the job?"

"I've defeated you once. This will be the last time."

Ýrr launched herself suddenly. She could hear the thumping of paws and knew Kalda and Mógils were nearly upon them, and soon Jökull would know that too. She barreled into him, knocking him back away from the rest of his pack and sending him stumbling over Mjaðveig's body. She was on him in an instant, but just as quickly she felt pain blossom as mouths and claws bit and tore at her skin just as she did to Jökull as his pack turned to defend its chieftain. But so too did hers.

Tulipa was quick to throw herself into the fray. While she may not have been as large, she was still powerful, and her size worked to her advantage. With their distraction she squeezed in alongside them to attack their weakest link, latching onto the already oozing wound and tearing it properly open. The resulting shriek of pain drew two of the pack's attention to her, but they did not yet realize it was now even odds.

As she went for his throat, Jökull latched onto her jowl and Ýrr made the mistake of yanking her head back. As the flesh tore she hardly had time to process the shock of the pain before Kaldi, having remained fiercely by his chieftain's side, took the chance to send Ýrr sprawling. She slid on her side on the icy ground, her mind barely able to process the glimpse she saw of the chaos of the fight unfolding before her momentum sent her rolling onto her back. She scrambled to get back on her side, to her feet, to fight. Before she could complete those steps, only just rolling onto her side, she witnessed Kalda launching herself over the warring wolves to intercept her brother. But she could not stop both Kaldi and Jökull, and the White Wolf of the North was already on his feet. As he now went for her throat, Ýrr barely squirmed her way out of the attack, and instead his paw came down heavily over her already wounded face. Blood, already filling her mouth, warmed her face and blocked her left eye.

She fumbled in her own blood to get to her feet as her skin prickled with danger. With her left side to the fight, she could not see an attack coming. She shook her head, trying to clear the blood, but nothing changed. Quickly, quickly. I have to move quickly, act quickly.

Ýrr barely turned in time to brace against his attack, digging in her heels and tucking in her head. She got under his paws and reared up, tumbling him back. She could feel the blood pulse out of her face in time with her pounding heart, continuing to obscure her vision. She blinked, shook her head, but nothing helped. But this was her chance. Jökull was down. The floor was slick with blood now, making it difficult to get up. There was something else in the blood too. Ýrr launched, ignoring the pain in her muzzle, and as she tore into Jökull's throat she realized with some cold clarity that what she had seen was an eye. Her eye.

Her attention snapped back into focus as she heard—felt—the crunch of Jökull's throat. No other sound escaped him. There was an incredulous moment where Ýrr found she could not move, hardly dared to breathe. It felt as though if she did, the finality of the moment would shatter. It couldn't be over, and yet it was.

The fragile moment held itself in a silence Ýrr believed to only exist in the shock of her mind, but she gradually came to understand that the blood soaked tunnel was no longer filled by the din of warring wolves. Slowly, she raised her head to look over the remnants of Ylfing, both halves, and found them each doing the same. Kalda was heavily injured, settled against Kaldi. If not for her heavy breathing Ýrr would have believed both littermates had fallen. Tulipa had chunks of fur and flesh torn from her that she licked gingerly. But it was Mógils that she was drawn to as he looked over the aftermath and felt her grief anew as she registered the horror in his expression.

"Mjaðveig," He whispered, scrambling over corpses to reach that of his pair. Ýrr turned her head away, closing her eyes—eye. When she opened them—it—again she was looking down at Jökull. Before she truly thought about what she was doing she gnawed off his tail as a trophy for herself. As she dropped it at her feet the rest of her pack seemed to be coming out of their own stupors. Tulipa approached cautiously, Kalda had heaved herself to her feet, and while Mógils remained by Mjaðveig's side it was clear in the way he looked at her that he was seeking guidance.

"Let it be known, Jökull will be this year's sacrifice. From his blood Ylfing will be born anew. With his death so too dies the mistakes of our old ways. May this be the last time these walls see such suffering and finally serve their purpose as a home. As the new White Wolf of the North, Hvítylgr í Norðum, I will not rest until we achieve such a future. This is only the beginning."