Lost Creek Hollow and drew warmth of blood from bone

Wardruna watches as she rises from the water, her movements the epitome of elegance: as if she was a mythical being that has chosen to reveal herself to him as the water runs freely from her pelage. She is not much closer than she had been but he can deduce the dark smudges of umbra beneath each eye and his tail brushes against his smoke tipped hocks with intrigue nevertheless as his singular gaze assesses as it sweeps over her. His damaged eye stares straight ahead: the marred flesh around it a hint that it does not work as well as it should have. Anyone who looks close enough, who has medical knowledge might be able to deduce that he’s completely blind in it but he does his best to keep it as concealed as he can. It is an exposing weakness: a rather large chink in his armor after all. She responds in kind, his ears twitching and fluttering for a moment as he picks up a noise outside of their small spacial bubble. Immediately, he thinks that Noma has followed him. She has been with him the longest and for some reason or another it does not occur to him that it might be Sif, the newest addition to his …collection. Was that the right word for it? She has her freedoms to roam and though he desires her to stay close he does not give voice to it. She is not his thrall. One day, he thinks, perhaps she will be a wife …but he reminds himself that those things take time and that he should not get so ahead of himself. For now, Sif is a companion.

Wardruna does not ignore his suspicion that they are not alone but he turns his attention back to the unorthodox but nevertheless fascinating woman before him as she asks him of atonement. It takes him a moment to make the translation connection in his mind, briefly distracted by the quirk of her lips into a smirk. Atonement. Fridpæging. She is religious, he makes the next connection based on the fact that she is alone. If there is no one to seek atonement from then surely it’s the unseen. The deities that linger just out of sight but whose presence is always felt. Sometimes, Wardruna amends, they do allow themselves to be seen. “Yes. I know of atonement.” The northerner replies, salmon pink tongue drawing across his jowls. He takes a deep breath, letting it out in what was meant to be a soft exhale but ended up heavier than that. Perhaps he, himself, is atoning. For not being a proper Northerner. For not being able to die as he should have when he lost his fight to the death henceforth resulting in the scarred flesh, permanent hyphema and unrepeatable damage done to his eye that resulted in his blindness in it. Living…surviving when he was meant to die was humiliating even more so than his resulting exile. His Gods, he knows, may have made a mockery out of him but they have bigger plans for him. This knowledge Wardruna feels in his bones.

“What do you atone for?” He inquires, wondering if he is meant to ask it so brazenly. Just because he asked, he reminds himself, doesn’t mean she is in any shape or form obligated to tell him. Still, he turns inquisitive gaze to her nevertheless.

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