The Altar
A Rendezvous with Fjärilge
Trudging through the unforgivingly rocky terrain, your eyes squint against the stinging grays and whites of the mountain pass. The frozen stalks of forgotten plants prick at your paw pads while you try discerning the blinding forms in front of your face from the bleak backdrop. Your breath, foggier than ever before on the Assembly's territory, burns your face as it gyrates from the harsh winds back upon you.
You have been tracking a scent— a lush, albeit faint aroma of a lone lioness. You are seeking her not for pleasantry, pastime, nor predation, but rather peregrination, as you've not an inkling of what star your nose could possibly be pointing to. How could this lioness possibly bear to live within such a perilous domain? You again press your nose into the solid-packed ground and note two things: green-brown blades were beginning to fade out of the snow into the cold air and the tepid, alluring perfume of the lioness was swelling. Ah, that answers your question.
Sharded, shredded stones metamorphize into dewy, frosty verdure as you push onwards. Large pillars and walls of mountain matter close you in no longer and you find yourself surrounded by a more open expanse of coniferous mammoths. The frigid air still numbs the raw skin beneath your pelt but you find solace in the fact that your paws are beginning to remember what feeling is. Fog bends and lurks about your ankles, obscuring much of the landscape in front of you, but the female's scent is more persistent than ever.
Nothing moves. All is still, all is quiet, all is so very, very, smothering. Something long, thin, and soft tickles your flank and passes you by, disappearing into the cloud before your eyes can meet it. You are disoriented to the point where you can hardly tell whether you are facing left, looking up, or even standing upside down. The ghostly tendril darts out again and prods at your chest gingerly— your throat tightens up when you make out that it is somehow extruding from a rodent-like creature's mouth. This pretense lasts for hardly longer than a moment, however, as the tendril wisps across your chin and you recognize that it is instead a tufted tail adorned in the most obscure ornaments. It seems to be feeling you out too, not entirely immune to the wrath of the day's low visibility. Finally, a voice, clearer than anything you could have prepared for, stabs through the netting of the vapor.
"That nose of yours must be strong."
After what feels like an eternity, the head of the lioness you had been searching for manifests out of the gloom, brownly brindled and tabbied yet quilted with black patches. She looks neither menacing nor in any distress, simply appearing... at peace, despite her surroundings. Even then, her beautiful hazel eyes portray a glimmer of curiosity in you, the newcomer. "It isn't every day that Hägvid allows somebody onto his territory... and it's even more surprising that you managed to get this far without him to guide you. I am Fjärilge. You may wonder why I am so far away from my pridemates, but you must recognize the importance of protecting treasure."
Breathless, you nod and quietly introduce yourself, captivated by her strange charm. She is not a bright purple celestial nor is she an elusive tigon, but her body, draped with tiny bones and furs, ripples and warps as if she is one with the fog."What, does frostbite have your throat? Huhu. I'm assuming it is my duty to show you the right passage. I can, but I would appreciate it if you would lighten the Assembly's load ever so slightly."
She takes a step back and, with a clatter, you realize that she— and almost you— had been standing atop a small collection of trinkets. Her gems, poultices, and accessories appear dull in the dim light but still entice you enough to take a closer look; her expressive face, still shrouded by the white, beckons you to offer your patronage.
