King Elk Forest ᚷRIÐUNGAR

maybe @Haelwyn but all welcome too!!

the snow was old here; packed, hard underfoot, touched by his piss and paws and frost of the full winter.

the jarl could be seen moving slowly through with a low head and a tail raised, shoulders rolling thick as he huffs. every few strides he stopped to lift a leg, steaming his claim against tree trunks and moss-slick stone.

he’d marked it twice already in the past week. now he circled again, clawing at bark, raking gouges into soft roots and frost-bitten brush.

the loss of home tastes as dandelion on her tongue. it has been a long time coming, surely, but time does not erase the jagged points of a serrated blade as it carves open her chest.

she does not know when her paws had begun to ache, but she figures from the dullness that is recent. the cold here does not bite as it does in kalfskinn—a great pity—but at least the snow lingers. it is stale and stained, but it is there. she had hoped that, at the very least, new land would not mean giving up all of her home. dead wrong, she was—reality is a cruel thing. not even a dusting of snow. it twists her snout ugly, white fur wrinkling at the nose.

she walks anyway—walks and walks and walks until she is faced with another figure, a man. burly black beast, a scar up his mouth. it is his territory she edges along, she realizes, and her posture tenses reflexively. defensive, thinking—haelwyn of úrsova would not shy from conflict, should he seek a fight.

the norseman is made aware of another presence when the sound of snow crunch comes upon his ears and her scent drifts. blown towards him by the bitter, chilling wind, it is distinctly feminine but in all the ways he enjoys.

those icy eyes turn upon her, and find a stalwart woman. bred of ice and battle, strong shoulders. a fierce face. draugr finds her eyes and stops where he walks, hiking a foreleg and spraying a last stream of stinking, yellowed piss. staining the ground with his stench. 

sterk kona stendur frammi fyrir jarli. the norseman drawls, grit and gravel and ice the fragments that make his voice. he draws himself to his staggering height before her, inhaling a deep breath; his chest and ribs widening.

he displays to her his brawn, his might, and awaits a reaction.

he parades before her like he is a prize to be beheld across all the realms. it does not impress her so much as make her glower, narrow-eyed and caviling. she was no broodmare, just as he was no stud. true strength does not come from the body, not physique.
but even then his display, despite her disdain for it, is not entirely in vain. the heart is what matters, yes, but prowess proves he is capable. a claim over this land gives him rank: if someone follows, perhaps there is reason to, and so she meets him where he stands. his eyes begin at her face and lower, appraising.

“jarl hvers?”

a woman not so easily impressed is to his favor.

he ceases his theatrics short thereafter her response, though lumbers forwards. closer to her, chin lifting so he may scent upon her. there is a rumble in response, thick and throaty, trapped in his chest.

to her words, he meets her gaze and grins. to hear they share a native tongue and to know she is a woman of the norse culture. sharing in his beliefs, surely. sharing in his life, maybe. he barks, warhall er mín krafa.

he lumbers past her but does not make to touch her. shoulders pass shoulders, hips pass shoulder, then he turns his head over his own to look upon her. beckon her to follow, along one of many trails he has carved out through the woodland.

en þetta land tilheyrir alföðurnum. oðinn gengur á meðal okkar. hinn mikli hirtur sem ásækir þennan skóg. hann er hann, komdu til jarðar. warhall heiðrar hann. við erum stríðsmenn hans, fólk hans.

he walks from the thick, gnarled trail and into an open glen. fragments of sun shining down through canopies of tree. where he has dug out a place of communion for the people of warhall, where he has raised monuments for their gods. Þetta er hjarta fólks míns.

the man presses into her space, drawing in her scent as she draws his—rot clings to him. he reeks of old meat and wet earth, something left too long beneath the snow. her nostrils flare once—displeased—but she does not comment.

she follows when he turns. the trail bears the marks of his claim, a wide repeated passage. used. that much, at least, is true. when he speaks, it is with ardency—with love for his people, love for her gods.

seldom does haelwyn indulge passion—it clouds judgment, dulls the blade—but devotion spoken plainly and without apology is a rare exception.

the glen opens before them, light breaking through the canopy in fractured pieces. stone rises where it has been placed by paw, worn smooth by weather and touch alike. Her gaze moves slowly, counting, noting. Altars and markers, offerings long since taken by time.

the man does not stop talking, and her scowl tightens at his implication. odin in flesh. her brow dips, but the thought needles at her. it is not unheard of that he walks unseen among his people—but it he truly here? "hvar er hann nú?"

phone post excuse any typos :P

he looks to the woman with icy eyes, seeing true to that soul which lay within her. she is naturally skeptical, and who would not be?

even he recognizes the absurdity of such claims. yet, he sees it true. he is enlightened. draugr rumbles with the depth of which he believes odin walks amongst them.

i feel him in the trees. i see him in the great tines of the beast. he is strong. grear, mighty. the largest stag i have laid eyes on.

draugr walks forwards into the glen and feels the warm sun upon his dark hide. the crimson shadowing him lighting up like fire beneath the setting heat.

when he calls, you can feel it in your marrow. he has come to walk amongst his people, finally. he will know warhall as his most loyal. his axemen and skalds.