Lost Creek Hollow and drew warmth of blood from bone

Wardruna cannot see her well — because yes she is mostly submerged in water — but even so all that truly stands out to him are golden eyes. His struggle of still adjusting depth perception and distance with the permanent damage the hyphema in his left eye is a slow progression and things he would have keenly spotted before blur together with notable distance. It is getting better but Wardruna knows he still has a long way to go yet. He relies more heavily on his other senses these days: sound, smell, taste, feel. She hears his chuff, at the very least, and as she stare lingers upon him she speaks, her voice a rough and unsteady murmur against the soft babble of the waters. He translates her question in his head and inspects it carefully with contemplative evident in the twitching of his ears yet it’s end result is the same: it makes little sense to him. Sent for her? More importantly, he ponders what it is he is meant to answer. Yes? Or no? Which was honest? The truth was that this meeting was just happenstance …or was it? He is a firm believer in the Gods and he is an equally as firm believer that everything is by their design. “I do not know.” The northerner eventually answers honestly with a terse tug of his lips and a small roll of his broad shoulders. He is no Seer and to pretend that he has intimate knowledge with the design of the Gods is akin to sacrilege. Thus, Wardruna plays it safe. He does not particularly want to feel the agony that the wrath of his Gods will no doubt cause.

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