The night was warm, least it was warm to the wardog whom had been born around the howling winds of the worst blizzard the motley crew of wolves that had called themselves Warmongers had claimed to have witnessed. The kind of blizzard that the riders of the Wild Hunt rode in on to bring about the destruction of the earth; though these were exaggerations Sigtýr had came to learn from early on. The Norse were famous, or perhaps infamous for their exaggerated stories spoken by the bards and berserkers alike. It was claimed that Freyja herself had taken the life of Sigtýr's slave mother,  soon after she had given birth to him. Yet, those were what they were: stories. It was true his mother had not lived but perhaps an hour after she had pushed him out into the world but it was likely the trauma of labor that had done her in, as opposed to the queen of the valkyries. Or perhaps Sigtýr himself had been her harbinger of death. Whatever the case he knew little about her, not even what she had looked like for his father never spoke of her and when the inquisitive, and foolish child he'd been had questioned about her he was met with the sharp prick of his father's teeth at his throat, the promise of death should he persist clear in the lackluster glean of his the elder male's eyes.

His slave wives lingered on either side of him as the trio made their progression through the darkening foreign wilds. The fiery mottled monochrome colored one he called Herja claimed her usual and favored spot to his right while the delicate brown sugar and cream colored french woman known as Eir kept loyaly to his left, always more demure then her pistol of a companion. He took the leading steps, always a few paces ahead of them, though sometimes he lingered at the rear enjoying the view to protect. Of course he protected what was his. They were precious to him in the only way that the wardog could find anything precious. It was a possessive affection, misguided though it undeniably was. 

The skies were rapidly darkening above them and their progression had slowed enough for him to hunt for them. He brought the warm hares to them where they awaited him, waiting to be sure they ate until their bellies were full — for he would not have his slave wives malnourished — before he fed himself. It wasn't kindness that this way of thinking was born of but his own greed and want. He did not want famished women, they would be well fed and they would be lavished like queens to ensure that they did not leave him (sort of like a harem) but it was all for him in the end despite how it might have seemed to anyone else.

Herja spoke up for them, gesturing towards the fairer sister wife woman, requesting some rest. He studied them: blood splatters tarnishing their chests in places, and let out a low grunt. He turned away from them for a moment to study the moonlight walls of the towering peaks they'd drawn to. His hackles bristled slightly: he could smell the urine scents of a pack close by and it inherently made him nervous to allow them to wonder from him despite that he knew they would not go too far. “Go rest,” He murmured having made his decision, fixating his golden gaze upon them as they rose at his approach. He offered Eir a caress against her muzzle, earning him a soft giggle from the frenchwoman, before he nipped, perhaps a bit roughly, at Herja's cheek, his lips moving to linger by the more vocal woman's ear. “Do not go far, Herja,” Before he pulled back to address Eir as well. “There is a pack close by our position, be alert and call for me if there is trouble. I will join you soon.” The wardog spoke to them in his native, guttural tongue. He was not tired, yet. 

It was easy for him to forget that they were not used to wandering as he was, that they did not share his sense of restlessness. He watched their silhouettes melt into the shadows of the night as they searched for a place for them to rest. His tail lashed behind him once, before he began forward in the direction opposite of his slave wives, black leathery nose lowered towards the ground though he was not yet sure what he was hunting for.

Sigtýr kept moving like that for a few minutes longer, conscious not to wander too far away from his slave wives. They were long out of his sight, and he theirs but they knew not to venture too far for if they did they would be left alone to fend for themselves until he found them or vice versa. They had the choice, of course, but only because he allowed them to. They had proven their loyalty and their desire to stay for the wardog to extend a trust to them and loosen his proverbial hold on them. Not too loose lest they decide to run off, yet he doubted either of them would take the chance. Their good behavior and loyalty earned them rewards, as he watched his father extend to his own slave wives — the ones that came after his mother, that was. The glacier and silver dappled beast caught another scent of the pack housed nearby. Perhaps he was tempting fate by being so close, despite that he and his were no where really near their borders — not that it would have truly stopped him nevertheless. This whiff was particularly strong and as he sniffed eagerly at the perfuming scent his head lifted and his steps ceased as he realized that it was also individualized.

It was stronger because of their wolves was close to him. Sure enough, it did not take long for her form to come into his tarnished gaze. At first, he was slightly taken aback by her appearance, fire kissed but sort of reminded him of a red fox. Kind of, but not quite, though she was clearly a wolf. As his shock burned itself out fascination rushed to fill the crevice in shock's wake. He'd never seen a wolf colored like her before, and he studied her, unabashed, canting his head to the side as he assessed her.

She greeted him, simply, using the common tongue. His common tongue (as his french) wasn't perfect but he understood it well enough to communicate effectively. “Hello,” He parroted her greeting, deep voice lilting with it's accent. She was young, maybe a year old, maybe a little younger. Not too young but not yet a mature woman yet. Still in that cusp of in between, if he had to guess. Her age didn't matter to him, it was of no consequence. Her appearance was unlike anything he'd ever seen on a wolf before and that immediately intrigued him; which was never a good thing. “You are from the pack near here?” Though it was an observation more than it was a question — the wardog could deduce that much on his own even without her verbal confirmation, gesturing absently towards the rise in the distance with his muzzle.

Would he had been the effervescent, sappy romantic type he would have found the Altar of Twilight — though he did not know the name of the territory they currently occupied — to be a marvel sight. Yet, this was not the type of man that Sigtýr was, or realistically would ever be. Perhaps his slave wives found the territory to be splendid — and even if they did he wouldn't ask — but he did not intend for them to stay long, not so close to the borders of claimed territory. It was not the claim of other wolves that bothered him, but he preferred not to have a pack breathing down his neck and surely there were better territories to haunt. He had no real intention of shacking up with any packs already established, confident that he and his slave wives would not be welcomed so readily. Yet, he didn't have to think that far ahead. Spring would be upon these lands soon and with it the influx of prey would come.

Yet the sight of the moonlight upon the walls of the rock was little compared to the young woman before him. The fiery shades of her coat accented her features well, and the wardog was nothing if not a shallow beast; though he found himself wondering if her personality was a fiery to match. He already had a firecracker in Herja but he didn't particularly mind the woman's fire, though it had proverbially burned him before. Herja and Eir balanced one another nicely, but he found it hard to focus on the two women awaiting him. His attention and eyes kept drawing back to the young woman standing before him. Perhaps she weary, and perhaps the wardog could not blame her if it was true.

“I am from a frozen wasteland far north of here,” A harsh environment that bred harsher wolves. “You are unlike any wolf I have seen before,” He murmured in a manner of compliment, his interest mutable in his tone before he began to slowly circle her, so he might assess her in full. His steps were heavy and he kept his distance, giving her, her space but he was unable to help but think how she would make a good slave wife. She was small, yes, but so was Eir. It wasn't a matter of knowing them or not, but more of a matter of if he wanted them. And she had piqued his interest, thus sparking the want; her youthfulness was a nice bonus. “Your fur is like fire.” Sigtýr stated simply as he ceased his steps when he was standing before her again. “What do they call you?” He inquired though if he managed to snag her as a slave wife — though he had yet to decide how he would go about it — her name mattered little. In fact, it mattered little regardless for even if she managed to escape his clutches he would bestow her a new one as he had Herja and Eir, nevertheless.

She gave him a name, unlike any that he'd heard before and one that he made no attempts to repeat. It was unlikely that he'd be able to say it without butchering it, anyway, and already his mind was going through the names of the Valkyries in his head to find one that might match her. Alvitr was the partial name of a Valkyrie, but it also started with an “A” as did this Attica's name and held one meaning of strange creature. There was nothing particularly strange about her, aside from her fur color to him but rather than find it strange he found it aesthetically pleasing. Yes, she would make a nice addition to his slave wives, though he understood that she would not go willingly. Willing didn't hold half the fun of the chase, of hunting them down and claiming them. He enjoyed the spirit of fight — but of course he did. He was a warrior, he got off on the high of battle.

“Rig,” He replied simply, not yet willing to give her his true name. For now, a moniker of the god Heimdall would do, and as it stood was his favored moniker to go with. Heimdall was a wanderer, too. The fact that they were so close to her pack would pose something of a problem, Sigtýr considered, but he was a patient man. Though he would prefer not to let her escape his grasp and run back to them, for this would make it all that much harder, it would be a chase unlike any he'd known before. “I bet my wives would fawn all over you,” Especially if he managed to bring her home to them. Conveniently, he left out the part of 'slaves' but that was neither here nor there at the moment.

Tarnished golden gaze swept over her again and he let out a low murmur in his guttural tongue, a soft word one that he did not elaborate upon. “What are you doing out here by yourself?” He inquired, wondering what kind of fools would let such a little beauty wander by herself in the dark? Especially where a lecherous Berserker like himself might find them ripe for their taking?

The flame colored girl did not speak again to Sigtýr, even as he mentioned his slavewives casually — as he was prone to do. Eir and Herja would probably find her fascinating in their own ways, and for a moment he wished he would not have so easily sent them off to find them a place to rest for the night. Perhaps with the presence of the other women she might not have felt so uneasy; but it was no mind to the wardog. A thrill of excitement went through him, tarnished golden gaze lighting as he desired to ghost her. He refrained, letting her put more distance between them. He desired her to be one of his slavewives, to have not just two valkyries but three. To out shine what his father had never been able to accomplish: to have his own harem of women. 

Ambition was clearly not something that Sigtýr lacked by any means, but he knew that he needed to be strategical. It might save him a lot of trouble to attempt to take her by force, to drag her to where Herja and Eir had claimed for the night; yet he was not ignorant to the fact that they were close to the pack she called home. He would not risk the lives of Herja and Eir as quickly as he was willing to risk his own — Valhalla was the ultimate goal for a wardog such as himself, after all. “Where are you going Alvitr?” He inquired of her softly, not expecting an answer. “You came all the way out here, Attica,” Her name upon his lips was strange, and he much preferred the valkyrie's name he'd decided to give her. “maybe for food? I can help to hunt, some food for you and your pack and for me and my wives.” He expected her to turn down his offer. She was suspicious of him, her stiff body language told him. It might make things much more difficult: in this she was like Herja. Eir had been easy; ignorant and naive, easily ensnared into his web. Sigtýr lived for the challenge, and he held the suspicion that Attica would put up such a challenge.

Her steps back were rapid, and slowly, in a manner that was lumbering, the wardog ghosted a step towards her, gaze locking upon her.