Blackfeather Woods death gazes in all directions, as curious as a hand, with blind eyes

She moves closer and takes her in with his good eye as if it is the first time. He supposes, in some ways, it is. There had been no conversation, no thought: only primal need sate the fire her estrus cycle had created. A soft, weary smile tugs at the corners of the northman’s lips and he lets out a soft, mirthless laugh. Two sons. He has two sons both whom had ( more or less ) grown up without him. Just as he’d grown up without his — except the difference is that Ragnar had been killed while he was still alive, trying to fix his errors and mucking it all up in the process. Mistakes were inevitable and everyone made them; else no one could grow, could learn. Potema. Atli’s salmon pink tongue draws across his jowls as he tucks her name away. She’d cross his thoughts from time to time but he’d never thought he’d know her, that he’d ever properly meet her; and it truly hadn’t been a desire until he’d met Vaati, easily mistaken for Arrille.

“Potema,” He repeats her name, testing it on his tongue, ears twitching to hear how it sounds in his lilting accent. It sounds nice, he thinks. He does not recognize her surname but is not overly bothered by it because she will not recognize his. Like the name, like the scars and the all but blindness: it is new; but it is well earned. His ears cup forth as she tells him that she is a Listener, and a High Priestess. He knows nothing about them, about their culture or their Gods ( something he safely assumes they have as she calls herself a priestess ) and the Atli is left to assume that she is in a position of power. This assumption is confirmed when she beseeches him to stay.

Atli hadn’t necessarily came here with the intention of joining but there is something about her that causes him to say, “Ok.” I will stay. It strikes him as a bit strange, to implore a lover ( one of many ) that she barely knows to stay and he cannot erase the sneaking suspicion that she may be afraid of something or someone. He doesn’t know for sure, of course, it’s just a theory and one he does not dare to bring to attention because they don’t know each other well enough and he does not wish to insult her ( especially if he is wrong ). “I bring with me my fighting skills and scouting abilities,” Because this has been far from a typical joining process and he feels the need to inform her that he has plenty to contribute to the pack even though she had not asked. “I am yours to command, High Priestess.” His head sweeps low in a bow like gesture. Priestesses in his culture are revered almost as much as the Gods themselves; more-so than the Jarls, Earls and Kings and that way of thinking is so deeply ( and painfully) engraved in his mind that breaking it would be impossible.