Duskfire Glacier from the chaos of your kingdom

There is a draw to the glacier that rests, cradled between two mountains though Wardruna sticks to the forest: made up of towering maples painted with the colors of autumn and pine trees painted in striking emerald and frosted blue pines. He draws in a deep breath, black, leathery nostrils assessing the sickly sweet scent of the maple trees tempered by the sharpened tang of the pine trees, the pungent scent of blood mingling from his half eaten opossum: plump as it was. His coordination is improving: the loss of his eyesight in his left eye even after the scar the Goði had healed was devastating but he preserved. He endures. He teaches himself how to hunt again, how to judge depth perception and distance with only one working eye to guide him. It has not been easy and though he is growing skilled he struggles still. He is grateful for the meat that settles in his stomach: though it is more of a snack than it is an actual meal. Still: it is food in his belly. It is nourishment and he’s caught it all by himself even with his disability. It’s a baby step in a positive direction; and he thanks the Gods for it despite the humiliation he has suffered in the wake of his devotion to them, in the persistent sting of a challenge for chieftain lost.

Wardruna scoops up the half eaten kill and carries it with him to where the meltwater of the lake placing the corpse at his paws as he laps at the cool water, submerging his muzzle in the frigid water for a few seconds before he lifts his head in attempt to wash the blood and bits of flesh from his muzzle after he’s taken his long, deep drink to sate the fierce thirst that had gripped him. The blood writhes stark red in the cold water and he watches it for a second before he grasps his meal betwixt his jaws with the intent of carrying it to a place to store it until later in the night or earlier in the morning when hunger grips him once more.

Wardruna’s black, leathery nostrils flare as he scents above the pungent scent of blood and the aroma of his kill: another wolf. He lets out a low pant around the corpse of his opossum as he searches, ears twitching and pivoting as he hears a grumble that he presumes is the rumble of a stomach and instinctively his jaw clamps tighter upon his kill, driven by the possession of a man who knows it may be a full day before he eats again. Hunger is something that Wardruna understands but he is not a creature of sympathy and has no intention to share. Damaged eye searches in futile for that which it will never see and he turns his head ever so slightly to give his right eye a wide view of everything, his pupil narrowing as his jack-o-lantern gaze finally settles upon the fellow canine.

“hvað viltu?” The northerner demands in his mother tongue only after setting his kill down at his paws. As for the answer, Wardruna can make his own deduction. It is only after a heartbeat that he realizes he has not demanded in common and with a slight roll of his eyes repeats himself: “What do you want?”