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+--- Thread: Stone Circle ᚨᚱᛁᛗᛁᛚᛁ (/showthread.php?tid=65513)
ᚨᚱᛁᛗᛁᛚᛁ - Drøugr - April 06, 2025
ᚦ — the moon is high, but the light is low. wind moves through the meadow, soft across the tops of the flowers, brushing cold fingers through the tall grass.
draugr walks the circle. weaving in and out of the pillars, sides brushing against. to cover up fading pack scent with his own. carrion, blood dried into fur, sunbaked into skin. wildflowers smothered into fur.
the rustle of brush draws him from the center, where eyes ferocious as the sun are wielded. searching, seeking. draugr growls; it is a rolling noise, that spreads from one point to the next.
a king vocally protecting what is his war front.
RE: ᚨᚱᛁᛗᛁᛚᛁ - Siggvard - April 06, 2025
the sound reaches him first, low and rolling like a storm, before the scent curls behind it. old blood, sunburnt rot, wildflowers crushed beneath something feral. he stands where the wind splits the grass, a stone in the stream, eyes catching silver in the moonlight.
"hm." he sounds like the creak of old timber, hardly unkind but cut rough, jagged edged. he doesn’t bare teeth. not yet, at least—it is not like him to be the aggressor without purpose. there’s a crookedness to his grin, something amused, curious. pride and challenge meet in his stance, chin lifted just a touch.
he crooks his head, cocks an ear. measured, a man who's known too many fights to waste effort on puffed-up shows. a viking's folly, to be sure. he hoped this one would prove him wrong. "you wish fight?" a pause, a glint of something wolfish in his gaze, "—fight."
RE: ᚨᚱᛁᛗᛁᛚᛁ - Drøugr - April 06, 2025
ᚦ — man appears. dark-furred in most regions, but light enough that eyes spot him easily. draugr hears his words—takes them to heart. swift. the beating of his heart, strong in his chest. berserkr steps closer, moving past standing pillars.
they frame him in muscularity. his foreleg raises, then paw slams roughly upon the earth. a warning. a growl.
þú ert fífl,draugr speaks gruffly, tasting his tongue, that splits past teeth and touches the scarred length of his snout,
eða hjarta þitt slær eins og mitt. við munum komast að því.
it is too early to be certain whether this man understands draugr's tongue. but if his creeping feeling is correct, he will. draugr feels that familiar thrum in his veins and he answers it with spirit. letting earth crash now under thundering paws, bringing himself swiftly to the other man.
leaping in topple towards him, teeth immediately singing for purchase where they might.
RE: ᚨᚱᛁᛗᛁᛚᛁ - Siggvard - April 06, 2025
there is no fear in sigvard—not in the leap nor crash of earth, not in the wild lunge of the beast before him. instead: heat. excitement. the thrill that curls behind his ribs and coils in his throat, born from the same marrow-deep place as faith. a fire stoked by the gods themselves.
he grins as the berserkr comes down.
"þú ert fífl," the brute says—fool—and that alone makes sigvard laugh, sharp and mirthful like bone snapping under tooth. he hears the old tongue and speaks it back with a growl of his own; "Þá látum við sverðin tala, bróðir."
he doesn’t sidestep—he meets the charge head-on, hind legs bracing with a thunderous thud as shoulder collides with shoulder, weight crashing like waves on stone. sigvard's teeth bare, ecstatic for the trial to come. his jaws snapping for draugr’s exposed collar, aiming not to maim but to mark. a test. a welcome. a warning.
the gods above are watching, and sigvard swears—if they want spectacle, he’ll give them war painted in flowers and fury.
RE: ᚨᚱᛁᛗᛁᛚᛁ - Drøugr - April 06, 2025
ᚦ — the clash does not knock him down. it feeds him. there is no surprise in the resistance, only satisfaction. their bodies strike, shoulder to shoulder, weight against weight, and draugr snarls through his teeth, letting breath curl wet and hot from deep within his chest.
his tongue licks blood from his gumline. the teeth that seek his collar graze fur and reluctantly pierce—but he does not shy away. he presses into the feeling, growling loud and laughing cruelly. feeling his blood pour. driving his forelegs down hard, testing the other’s weight, grinding chest to chest.
his jaws snap again, aiming for the thick skin of the shoulder. he wants to feel the push. wants to hear bones groan beneath muscle. draugr has not decided if he will kill this man and let his blood water the grounds of his stone circle, or if he will let him stand within. either way—if this ends in blood, the earth will drink it gladly.
RE: ᚨᚱᛁᛗᛁᛚᛁ - Siggvard - April 06, 2025
sigvard does not yield. breath heats between them like fire caught in bellows, blood breaks from his collar in warm, lazy trails. he pushes back, ribs locked and heart hammering, laughing—a hoarse, brash thing torn straight from the chest, barbed with delight.
he feels the bite sink into his shoulder—blooming red, soaking into fur—and welcomes it. muscles tighten beneath the warrior's teeth, not in retreat, but in rebuttal. a shove, a hook of his forelimb beneath the other’s to twist him just off his center, trying to knock him askew, not to end him, only challenge. to match fire with fire.
RE: ᚨᚱᛁᛗᛁᛚᛁ - Drøugr - April 06, 2025
ᚦ — blood spills.
the twist beneath his limb hits with real weight, a shift that sends his stance off-center, and his paws scrape grit and root beneath them as he adjusts.
he will snuff out this one's fire. it is no longer a game of fun. it is of dominance. exerting strength upon his grounds. he will take this one down with either death or with body. the other northman will sense the change of tone in his fighting stance and the glower in his eyes.
he lunges, again, this time without restraint. jaws open wide, blunt teeth seeking the nape where fur thins and the skin tightens over spine. when his teeth find flesh, he bites down. to dominate. his growl turns guttural, pulsing deep in his chest, a war-drum tempo carried on breath.
RE: ᚨᚱᛁᛗᛁᛚᛁ - Siggvard - April 06, 2025
the shift is felt before the strike—tone before tooth. sigvard sees it in the dark flash of his gaze, in the brute force of paws dragging against root and rock. gone is the thrill, the testing edge. now it comes to bear. dominion. intent. the way beasts fight for gods or graves. his favorite sort, in a way.
when he lunges again, wild and brutal, sigvard evades and dives in after him. a bite lands hard at the nape, solid and jarring, teeth meeting flesh, and he matches it with teeth to his foreleg—digging, digging. pain flares sharp through him, stars bursting white behind his eyes, but he does not cry out.
he growls and bucks hard beneath his grip—whole body driving backward, spine curling, legs locking as he lifts just enough to slam his weight back into the beast's chest, blunt-force meant to break breath, to shove him loose. he twists again, this time more savagely, one hind leg hooking to drive the brute sideways—toward the stone pillars. if they fall, they fall together. if blood must run, it will run from both.
RE: ᚨᚱᛁᛗᛁᛚᛁ - Drøugr - April 06, 2025
ᚦ — draugr holds the bite and tastes not fear, not surrender, but defiance. the war chief responds in turn.
bones collide, his chest forced to hollow against the slamming spine. breath jolts from his lungs in a sharp rasp, teeth slipping loose as the backward slam pushes him off.
his paws drag, claws tearing at the dirt, hind legs forced to stagger—one locked by the other’s hook. he snarls now, louder.
stone rushes up behind him, one pillar’s cold face grazing his shoulder as he slams into it. it holds. he holds. now, bitten fury into him as adrenaline and blood surge into a potent mixture. he will end this swift.
his forepaw rises like a war axe, and he drives it down, striking sigvard’s neck with full weight—letting his own weight roll as sigvard crashes and he pins him. jaw to the ground and chest flat, muscles coiling in his own body as he holds weight. his jaws snap again, for the base of northman's skull.
leggja fram eða deyja.
RE: ᚨᚱᛁᛗᛁᛚᛁ - Siggvard - April 06, 2025
the world lurches sideways. everything crashes into one breathless moment, and sigvard hits the ground with a thud, the air knocked clean from his lungs. a brutal strike—clean, decisive. his throat grazes dirt. the weight pins him, iron-strong and immovable.
his limbs writhe beneath pressure but the strength is gone from them, stolen by the blow to his neck and the sheer gravity of the beast above him. jaws snap near his skull, hot breath and spit mingling with the scent of blood-soaked earth. there is no shame in the violence. no fear in the silence that follows.
only the choice. leggja fram eða deyja. submit or die.
sigvard’s breath shudders in and out. he doesn't flinch from the bite that nearly takes his spine, but something in his eyes shifts—a flicker, fierce and begrudging. not defeat. not despair. acknowledgment. the gods, he thinks, will not find him weak for choosing life. it was a battle well-fought.
"eg legg fram."
RE: ᚨᚱᛁᛗᛁᛚᛁ - Drøugr - April 06, 2025
ᚦ — a rumble of please, then. he had not wanted to kill this man. he must begin broadening his circle.
gurgling breath rattles in his chest, lips peeled back from yellowed teeth, muzzle slick with blood. he peels back from the other norseman with a contemplative slowness, legs churning now.
he is still hot with the allure of battle fight.
draugr turns toward the fallen stone. he does not ask to be followed but it is silently expected.
þetta er steinhaugr.he turns sideways, and thuds his chest with a hefty paw. it is a hollow sound like wardrums.
ég mun kalla clanið mitt warhall. þetta er þar sem fólk mitt mun lofa guði sína. þetta er þar sem við munum hella blóði í þágu þeirra. þetta er þar sem börnin mín munu fæðast.heavy breathing now.
seg mér nafn þitt, berserkr. ég er draugr.this one has not earned his trust, not yet—but some small measure of respect.
RE: ᚨᚱᛁᛗᛁᛚᛁ - Siggvard - April 10, 2025
the pressure relents, and sigvard draws breath like a drowning man, like foaming waves returning to the ocean. his pride remains intact, if bruised and bloodied. he doesn’t rise quickly, no rush in him now that battle has passed—but his eyes follow draugr’s every step, sharp beneath the smear of blood along his brow. he hears the rumble of please in that first breath. a rare mercy, and one not wasted.
when draugr turns his back, sigvard watches. listens. the speech is not for show—it rings like prophecy.
his spine straightens at the words. reverence trickles slow down his ribs, something older than himself stirring. this place—this blood-soaked ground—has meaning now. a name. a beginning, beneath draugr's command. he rises slowly, wincing where muscle was torn and bone bruised, but stands tall all the same.
he follows, not out of obedience, but out of recognition. the war-chief had demanded dominion, and sigvard had given it—but not without cost. he stands just shy of the jarl's side, enough to show respect, not yet trust.
a grin curls faint at the edges of his lip, cracked and crooked. good place for a home. “ég heiti sigvard.” a beat. blood drips slowly from his shoulder, down his leg. “ég mun berjast með þér. Ef guðirnir leiða mig hingað, þá mun ég sjá hvað þeir vilja með því.”