he started at the ridge, where the tree line broke open and the snow gave way to bare rock, cold and flat beneath his paws.
and he pissed.
every few strides he marked again. bark. grass. thawed dirt where the sun touched. his tail curled high, muscles tight through the shoulders as he scraped hard against a few of the forest's thicker trunks.
dragging the length of his flank until fur tore loose in dark clumps and caught on the bark. his claws followed, gouging deep, peeling strips from the wood. by the time the jarl reached the center, the air reeked of him. thick and sharp, wolf and musk and the hot stink of piss and old blood.
satisfied, the berserkr huffs in the cold chill and tips his head back to howl. it is not pretty, melodic nor serene; instead, rough-bellied and warning. a beacon. perhaps, a flame that would bring the moths in.
the Allfather demanded followers. that meant warhall must thrive to appease Odin.
and he pissed.
every few strides he marked again. bark. grass. thawed dirt where the sun touched. his tail curled high, muscles tight through the shoulders as he scraped hard against a few of the forest's thicker trunks.
dragging the length of his flank until fur tore loose in dark clumps and caught on the bark. his claws followed, gouging deep, peeling strips from the wood. by the time the jarl reached the center, the air reeked of him. thick and sharp, wolf and musk and the hot stink of piss and old blood.
satisfied, the berserkr huffs in the cold chill and tips his head back to howl. it is not pretty, melodic nor serene; instead, rough-bellied and warning. a beacon. perhaps, a flame that would bring the moths in.
the Allfather demanded followers. that meant warhall must thrive to appease Odin.
draugr speaks norse fluently and common sparsely. he is a 3-3-3 toon.
Yesterday, 01:18 PM
she had been working the underbrush long before his scent rolled through it— thin paws sifting through frost-bitten herbs, gathering what little the early season offered: brittle yarrow, wintersweet bark, a tuft of hare’s fur for smoke rites. each bundle she tucked carefully beneath her chest, held close as if the old gods themselves had asked for them.
his mark hit her nose before his shadow did. violent. claiming. her spine tightened, ears folding low as she crouched instinctively, materials clutched beneath one foreleg. the howl that followed rattled her ribs— not beautiful, but powerful, a summons the gods would not ignore.
she stepped from the thicket anyway.
small, sootdark, a ghost beside the great draugr. she lowered herself at once, chest meeting earth, tail tucked. her eyes lifted only briefly— a flicker of gold toward her jarl— before she nosed her gathered herbs forward in offering.
a silent gesture: these are for the rites. for odin. for warhall.
his mark hit her nose before his shadow did. violent. claiming. her spine tightened, ears folding low as she crouched instinctively, materials clutched beneath one foreleg. the howl that followed rattled her ribs— not beautiful, but powerful, a summons the gods would not ignore.
she stepped from the thicket anyway.
small, sootdark, a ghost beside the great draugr. she lowered herself at once, chest meeting earth, tail tucked. her eyes lifted only briefly— a flicker of gold toward her jarl— before she nosed her gathered herbs forward in offering.
a silent gesture: these are for the rites. for odin. for warhall.
the girl appears shortly thereafter, a shadow skulking about the near edges of the glen. she captures the jarl's attention and to her he gives a throaty noise, eyes beaming.
observing, watching, capturing. she is much like a little weasel, or an otter. sleek and fast, a critter always just out of reach.
useful.
he watches her drop low, belly to the earth, herbs clutched like contraband, and there’s a curl to his lip. amusement, before he says:
observing, watching, capturing. she is much like a little weasel, or an otter. sleek and fast, a critter always just out of reach.
useful.
he watches her drop low, belly to the earth, herbs clutched like contraband, and there’s a curl to his lip. amusement, before he says:
good! mjög gott!snorting through his nose, it is a hot breath, steam flurrying and he lowers to nip at her ear.
úlfur vilja start calling þú jarl's fetchwife.the warrior bellows his amusement, with a lazy swish of his tail.
draugr speaks norse fluently and common sparsely. he is a 3-3-3 toon.
she flinched at the nip, not from fear but from the shock of contact— heat striking heat. her herbs scattered slightly beneath her paw, and she scrambled to gather them again, nose pressing each piece back into place with frantic care.
then she looked up at him. golden eyes wide, burned-in, catching the shape of his amusement as surely as a snare catches a limb. fetchwife. the word struck her like a thrown stone. she bristled faintly, a ripple down her thin spine, then dipped her head in a jerky, earnest tilt of submission.
her throat clicked. once. twice. a struggle of breath and scar tissue. but she forced it— pushed the sound out like dragging embers through ash.
then she looked up at him. golden eyes wide, burned-in, catching the shape of his amusement as surely as a snare catches a limb. fetchwife. the word struck her like a thrown stone. she bristled faintly, a ripple down her thin spine, then dipped her head in a jerky, earnest tilt of submission.
her throat clicked. once. twice. a struggle of breath and scar tissue. but she forced it— pushed the sound out like dragging embers through ash.
ek… tala…
Yesterday, 07:24 PM
the northman watches behind cruel eyes as matsi reacts to his pestering.
lowering herself, flinching, cowering. bristling, hackles whipping to a stand. and it is with a large hand that he reaches and slaps her upon the back, jovial, welcoming, when he hears her tongue.
his smile is one of a thousand terrible swords.
how he had not recognized one of his own, he does not know! the jarl allows himself to take a seat, snow pluming around the way he collapses down with little care or grace. his matted, uncleansed fur reeking and sitting terribly at his ruff.
lowering herself, flinching, cowering. bristling, hackles whipping to a stand. and it is with a large hand that he reaches and slaps her upon the back, jovial, welcoming, when he hears her tongue.
loksins,drougr huffs, gaze dropping to the collection of herbs betwixt her paws that she gathers nervously. to this, the jarl grins.
his smile is one of a thousand terrible swords.
þú talar tungumál norrænna manna!
how he had not recognized one of his own, he does not know! the jarl allows himself to take a seat, snow pluming around the way he collapses down with little care or grace. his matted, uncleansed fur reeking and sitting terribly at his ruff.
what er your nafn, little veslingur?he exhales. aye, what he'd do for a pint of mead, if such a concept existed within his canine mind.
draugr speaks norse fluently and common sparsely. he is a 3-3-3 toon.
Yesterday, 08:18 PM
the slap rocked through her narrow frame, pushing a grunt of air from her chest, but she did not shy away. she steadied herself over her herbs, thin paws braced, breath rising in white threads. at the sound of his recognition — one of his own — something in her posture shifted. a small, trembling lift of the head. a spark acknowledging its fire.
she crept nearer on her belly, closing the space between them in slow, scraping inches. when she stopped, she touched her chest with one paw — me— then pressed that same paw into the snow before him. a name given without voice.
blackfen.
her throat worked once, a broken rasp caught between a swallow and a gasp, and she forced the word out. her word.
matsi of blackfen.
she crept nearer on her belly, closing the space between them in slow, scraping inches. when she stopped, she touched her chest with one paw — me— then pressed that same paw into the snow before him. a name given without voice.
blackfen.
her throat worked once, a broken rasp caught between a swallow and a gasp, and she forced the word out. her word.
m… matsi.
matsi of blackfen.
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