Lost Creek Hollow and drew warmth of blood from bone

This is not a plan that Wardruna constructed himself: rather it fell together in such a natural albeit rapid-fire way that left the Northerner with the absolute belief that this was much greater than him, then his women. It was the designs of the very gods themselves, proof of their favor and continued show that they still had plans for him, that they did not disregard him as the wolves of the Spine had when he’d failed to die like he was supposed to. The gods have sunken him to the very lowest of lows and now they raise him up like a harbinger of their will, the catalyst of their greater plans. Poet accepts what he offers her and he watches her with heavy lidded eyes ( er, well one eye watches her, more like ) as she approaches him. Wardruna accepts the brush of her nose against his chin. “þá ertu velkominn hjá okkur” Wardruna breathes, his tail giving a few soft wags against his hocks. The northerner lifts his chin as Sif belly crawls between them and licks at his chin and presumably at Poet’s chin in an excited manner, accepting her enthusiasm and letting out a low rumble of approval meant for both of the women in his present company. All Wardruna can hope is that he can keep his promises to them and if they cannot get established upon their own thinks it might not be a bad idea to have a pack in mind they could migrate to. It would be a terrible pain for everyone involved but he has learned much during his exile and one of those invaluable life lessons was: always have a contingency plan.

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