Herbalists' Cache so I can watch your face as I take it all away

His name sounds softer as it rolls off of her tongue, absent the harsher inflictions of sounds he instinctively does as his native way of pronunciation demands of him. There is a stretch of silence between them and what Wardruna perceives to be sadness that emits from her, leaking into the silence that lays yet unbleached until she speaks once more. Her words are simple, vague and unflinching. They are dead. Wardruna shifts his weight then, favoring his left leg for a moment before his weight shifts back to all fours evenly. He is not sure if he should express sympathy or not. She did not specify how long they had been dead for and Wardruna was not exactly hard-wired to be sympathetic. So the northerner settles simply for a small noise of acknowledgement in the back of his throat. “No I’m not,” Wardruna responds in a quit murmur, a concur with her assessment. He knows the scents of Addie, Sif, and Poet cling heavily to him. His wives. “I am traveling with my wives.” He tells her, reclining back upon his haunches as his haunting, jack-o-lantern gaze sweeps over her again.