Sunset Valley 'til the day that i die

she followed where the crow flew. to the east, to the heart of the valley.
it brought her closer to the glacier, but she did not yet cross the invisible line that marked its boundaries. she spent a lot of time chasing ghosts for someone who who was so eager to abandon the past.
but she sought her sons. they were nothing if not her last tethers to the earth.
her travels brought her far from winsook and it demanded sustenance in return for the journey. a lone stag grazed upwind—its focus entirely on the tender shoots of grass beneath its hooves.
her jaw ticked.

---

ᚦ — ᛞᚱᚨᚢᚷᚱ had come close to the bottom of the northernmost mountain when a trailing scent had enraptured him. it had shot straight to his gut; a coldness, then a knowing. it solidified the knowing that this range is where she roamed...
but he would not yet treat with this elusive man of the mountain the kaan faust had spoken of. he will go after the woman and catch her alone, they would speak. slinking off now like a hunter, pulling hide close over shoulders with teeth.
he finds her in hunter's grace, ice eyes lonesome upon a stag in the distance. draugr appears from the foliage that guards many trees, emerging from treeline, and into the valley beneath. nose close upon her scent trail, savoring the toxicity that lingered within it.
it was perhaps this northman's one weakness: the flavor of a woman's heat. something that drove men to war, and certainly draugr who was no exception and ready to fling axe in favor of her heart.

the scent of the stag is heavy on the wind. it brought the cold bite of the glacier closer, but it was the hunt that consumed her now.
swollen muscles coiled beneath white fur, the pull of instinct ready to spring. she readied herself. but a familiar stench causes her nostrils to flare.
it is the norseman. the stag notices too.
it is close, and the moment to strike slips away. without another moment wasted, her legs move, quick and sure, with fangs bared in a silent snarl.
the arrow of the hunt was released—a well-timed strike, her claws extended to launch her forward in a single, powerful lunge. the stag does not stand a chance.
its startled cry echoes briefly, but it falls just as fast when her teeth sink into tender flesh. she holds until the wild pulse within her mouth quiets, then disappears. 
anoré stands over her kill with hackles raised. pallid tongue wipes the corners of her crimson flecked maw as she glares into the treeline at his bulking silhouette.
"either step out and speak, or return to your pile of rocks."

---

ᚦ — he watched the hunt with baited breath. to see her prowess in action, the northman feels a chill ripple through the muscle that hangs broad upon his weighted form. tongue swiping his snout; tasting the remnants of his own kill, thinking of what the blood pouring from throat might taste like now.
her kill falls; it is a ritual she has done time and time again. a matured huntress, a shieldmaiden fierce. she makes the blood which thumps in northblood's veins thump strong, stronger. he bellows a congratulatory hoot as he stalks closer again, closing distance she had created.
face torn by an arrogant and knowing smile that reveals teeth yellowed by bloodshed and lack of groom. ég tala, ég tala. words meant to raise arms in a show of peace, or to wave white flag high in the wind that blows now. bringing her scent to him and into nostrils that greedily drink it up.
his eyes betray his thoughts, but he does not seek to hide it. þú ert sterk kona. kona sem skipar. sem óttast ekki. draugr says lowly.
stepping dangerously close to her kill, and by extension, her. ignoring the curl of her lip. the passionate disdain for him in her gaze. menn myndu sjá þig og vilja drepa fyrir mig.
og þú myndir ekki vilja fyrir neitt. kjöt, skinn, börn. ég gef þér allt.

hot breath steamed from her slackened jaw. she said nothing, at first. only studied him as one might a poisoned blade.
she could smell it on him in droves. this was a transaction masked in generosity. and a heated, warm want in his loins. sharp as flint and clumsily hidden. the white-crow took it as ridicule to the highest degree.
tongue passed once over her blood-wet teeth, though not in invitation. 
"þú býður allt." she muttered flatly, judgement cast, "en þú vilt nú þegar of mikið." her gaze dropped to her kill, then back to him, slow as the rise of a storm tide.
"maðurinn talar um húð og börn eins og verslun, eins og vöruskipti. en ég er enginn markaður. enga hóru að kaupa. skrúðganga fyrir litla menn." her voice was acid dragged through gravel. she spat those words, little men, with the disgust one might have for a rot-fat carcass bloated with flies.
"heldurðu að ég hafi ekki heyrt þessi orð áður? frá konungum, frá þrælum, frá heimskingjum?" she'd not enter this world again. tool for man to step on and rise above while she lay in the dirt. not when she slit herself open for one already.
if draugr wished to stay in her orbit, he'd do so as a cur on a leash—or not at all. 
she lurched forward like a jarl—claiming the space like it belonged to her. because it did. and it bent in her presence.
"þú kemur hingað með blóði og hungri og þorir að bjóða mér börn, þegar ég er þegar að veiða mína eigin."
"heldurðu að ég þurfi gjafir þínar, drøugr? þá misskilurðu mig fyrir eitthvað mjúkt." the wind pulled at her fur like a war-banner.
and then she felt it, the war-drums in her blood that ached for release like it did many winters ago. before she was matriarch. before she was wife. before she was mother.
"og ef fótur þinn fer nær þessu kjöti, mun ég opna hálsinn á þér og senda þig aftur til heljar með sorglegt loforð enn á tungunni."
her voice fell low, coiled and coarsened. there was no bluff nor bravado. only certainty. like an executioner’s axe already halfway through the air.
"viltu mig? sanna virði. boga." 
if he thought himself worthy to ask such of her, if he believed his presence had meaning, then he would earn it—not through words and pathetic promises to coddle home-wives. but through action.
bow to this woman who does not share your kin. to this woman you had not lain with. to this woman who lifted you, once.

---

ᚦ — it is... remarkable.
the transformation from cool-blooded huntress to shieldmaiden in the flesh. a flareup of strength that rises from gut to throat like bile, in the riveting exit of a snarl. he watches with smoldering eyes. he feels breath upon his snout that is hissed from between her teeth.
the wight feels the palpitating of her fury as it comes in waves and rolls over him, heatwave that fries the very fur from his hide and leaves him a shivering pup. yes! drøugr cannot stop the growl that lurches to life in his own throat, his gut a concoction of emotions she has produced in him.
desire, battlewrath, awe. they are all present. each word is a lash upon his skin that he is unyielding beneath, taking once, twice, thrice. all gritted teeth and lowering of his own hackles, the grin upon his scarred maw only splitting more and more until it reaches sandstone gaze.
she is putrid. she is glorious.
the promise of deliverance to hel is one he would beg for each night lain with this woman. when she demands a bow, he does not move for several seconds. only drawing out a cold, amused laughter; but it is not mockery it stems from, but the desire for her that she only ebbs harsher with each cruel word.
his head lowers to his chest. wiry chin brushing matted neck fur with blood, eyes meeting the carcass she proclaims from. þú ert meira en kona! words coming in bellowing laughter that he cannot control, and that he does not fear being smited for. does she think him a monster?
draugr commands no honor. he is berserkr, through and through. his blood is that of the north and he bleeds black with fury, ode to the gods he swears and hears in his heart. in his northern mind and northern soul. his wrath is true and he will go to valhalla and feast among the fiercest of the northblood. but what is that life lived, if not having loved and been loved? he desired more than just conquest. he desired to leave a legacy, as any northman did. to fill his hearth with sons who would spill in his name. to share bed with a woman he can only live each day to be worthy of.
ég er ekki eins og eiginmaður suðurríkjanna. ég er norðanmaður. orð mitt er stál sem öx mín. ég segi að þú munt hafa, þú munt hafa. looking now up to her. tentatively, rising once more to his height—he towers above her, but it is not his want to lord above her. mín eina þrá, lunarre: að fylla langhúsið mitt af sonum, dætrum og jarlskonu. að fylla kviðinn af mjöð og villibráð. að bleyta öxi mína með blóði þeirra sem ég sigra. að vita hvenær ég fer til Valhallar, ég hef ekki sóað lífsblessun Óðins. þú munt segja mér að þú viljir ekki það sama? dóttir norðursins? his speech ending with a knowing grin, as he leers closer, and then moves away from her corpse as she threatened. letting her view upon his side, to see his worth. the strength he carries, the health upon his weight. the scars that decorate leg, body, and face. proof of valor, of battles won and tested. a face not handsome and perfect but weather wrought and blood-smited.
seeing through her with smoldering amber gaze. þú munt láta mig elta, kona. heyrðu mig þá: það er ekkert stríð, ég mun ekki berjast til að gera þig að konu warhalls jarls.

he did not wilt. not beneath her snarl, not before the bite of her words. he listened, even as his throat broke open in wild declarations, eyes burning with a devotion no priest ever taught.
anoré stood, fur lifting slow and high along her shoulders, a chill rising at the base of her spine.
she circled him like a wraith, until her warming flank brushed his. her voice came from behind him now, smoke and prophecy, "orð þýða lítið"
she would see him split, see him bend, and break in his pursuit. see how much worth he so claims.
"fyrir jarlskona þína, hún er spjótsoddurinn sem þú blæðir fyrir." standing before him now, her breath ghosts his cheek, "munt þú elta þegar hún er bara blóðblaut, villieygð og stríðssvangur? ekki fyrir vöggu né aflinn?"
an old flame, smothered and made soft, flickered to life. lit by his roughened hand. 
it burned with the same undying hunger that once called her to odin's table, that long-forgotten yearning to stand amongst the divine as a god herself. 
jarl and jarlskona, he'd offered. she expected no affections. no gentle thing to survive where they may walk. only ash and blood-letting and the promise of hell-wrought glory. but the gods are cruel—and perhaps fond of irony. for what greater jest than to make legends fall in love?

---

ᚦ — her voice slithers like smoke from a long-dead hearth, and it strikes like steel. the grin that once occupied his face has fled; no longer is it arrogance, but a more serious tone. he looks at her with smoldering, intense eyes—they no longer gleam with an inflated desire and arrogance.
breath upon his cheek, her icy eyes bearing upon his face. he turns to look at her, turning to face her; he will show her his strength. it blossoms beneath her gaze. he does not back down from her challenge, but he does not seek to command, to be above, neither.
his head dips low beside hers, voice a coarse rasp. ég vil ekki að mjúk kona brölti fyrir mönnum og óvinum. a knowing smile of stinking yellow teeth. ég myndi hafa konu blóðblauta, villta augu, hungraða í stríð. sem bræður mínir munu óttast eins og þeir óttast mig.
his gods chose him. but for her, he’d choose to burn.
his breath hitches. an idea. ears leaning forward, and now he is on the offense, circling her in turn. letting his brazen breath tickle the nape of her neck when he leans in. komdu með mér. ég mun sýna þér landið mitt. þú munt hitta mína menn. það verður holmgang, bara fyrir þig. Ég mun berjast við minn sterkasta mann og þú munt sjá hvers vegna ég er jarl. og ef þú vilt ekki vera, þá ferðu. enginn maður mun elta þig.

he leans in and his warmth is a blazing furnace against her cool skin. she does not yield to his gesture, but her eyes follow him. like the way the stars followed a comet’s arc—briefly, brilliantly.
she catches the glint of his promise. a fair offering braced in reverence. for that, she does not strike him.
"brennur þú harðlega, drøugr." she murmurs, almost to herself. recollected memories brought images of a boy half-broken. she searches his eyes for any sign of him, but finds none. he is long dead.
"það er furða að guðirnir hafi ekki þegar breytt þér í ösku." a compliment.
she steps away, severing the electricity between them, "hittu mig undir svörtu hæðunum. þegar stjörnurnar klifra hæst."
not for your men. not for your rank.
but because the blaze in you calls to something long dead in me. and i must to know if she still lives.
she does not wait for a reply. only turns and vanishes into the trees.