the morning is cool and damp, mist coiling like breath around the roots of trees. sunlight barely filters through the canopy, casting everything in a soft, pale grey. it is quiet. still. but not dead.
rædwulf moves slow, deliberate—broad paws pressing heavy into the softened earth. his shoulders roll with each step, his weight shifted low, head forward, ears pricked. he is a wall with teeth.
he walks the border not as a visitor, not as a guest, but as one who belongs here now. a rekkr. a warrior of forneskja.
and so, he claims it.
his body sways, shoulders brushing bark and stone. he pauses at trees and rocks with intent, scenting them, reading the land before he adds to it. his musk, strong and sharp, mingles with the pack's already lingering scent. but now his is woven in. a thread in the greater cloth.
he lifts a leg and marks the base of a crooked tree, one claw raking across the bark after.
rædwulf moves slow, deliberate—broad paws pressing heavy into the softened earth. his shoulders roll with each step, his weight shifted low, head forward, ears pricked. he is a wall with teeth.
he walks the border not as a visitor, not as a guest, but as one who belongs here now. a rekkr. a warrior of forneskja.
and so, he claims it.
his body sways, shoulders brushing bark and stone. he pauses at trees and rocks with intent, scenting them, reading the land before he adds to it. his musk, strong and sharp, mingles with the pack's already lingering scent. but now his is woven in. a thread in the greater cloth.
he lifts a leg and marks the base of a crooked tree, one claw raking across the bark after.
raedwulf speaks only old english, so communication may be difficult until he becomes more fluent in the common tongue.
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