Boartusk Heights aquí estoy, tierra de muerte

after touring the territory with the matriarca, he cannot get off his feet. 

unsure of what work there is to be done, he takes to doing what he does best. 

if not a killer, why not a sentry?

the air is crisp, tickling his fur. but the sun beats down hot over his masked face. 

where he can, he keeps to the shade. but the course of his patrol does not waiver simply due his discomfort.

in its fading stages, the warmth and opulence of her primal season were a soft touch on the senses - so far from the wicked hooks of days past. softer yet winds carried her signs upways, announcing her presence in the jagged borderlands of the draugr kingdom even as she remained hidden, a pair of red stars in the black of a stone's scar.

the area is quiet, but not quite barren. 

the wind carries tales of a visitor. whether aware of their crossing or not, the shadow masked man is not pleased by their presence. 

lip curled, his mass appears just in view of the space in which they had hidden themselves.

a growl echoes; the voice speaking his command: I can smell you. come out!

the stars blinked.

the wolf exited, piece by piece;

a long, black limb, marred with damaged flesh.

the nose, twitching, the snout curved slightly.

the eyes wide and swallowing, brighter red in the sunlight.

neck twisted with the head.

shoulders ruined by scars.

a body thin and damaged and small.

and a tail fanning the waning scents beneath.

the madwoman's teeth were pure and white in her grin;

ees issue, vaktmann?

their appearance; gruesome. 

the grin on their face—it is far from comforting. 

a grumble denotes his displeasure, a sneer following as laughable thoughts of their meek presence mixing with those of la muerte seize his mind. 

but in all, they are not wanted here. 

offering a flash of his teeth, he snaps in their direction. 

leave! — his rumbling tone and dark glare demand.

she plays at girlish shyness, bats her uneven lashes, pops a bony hip and turns her head to a side.

but the svart cannot hold it long, and she bursts with laughter.

ah, ah, sveet gjørmmann, ee not look for issue make yu, ee vant... informasjon.

she leans towards him.

lah muh-erte.

closer, closer.

so close, he could reach to touch her if he wanted.

but he didn't.

did he?

he begins to growl in protest, but the sound dies quickly. only when she speaks the name of this sacred place. 

la muerte.

it is all he understands. 

huffing loudly, he gives her cheek a manly shove with his nose, turning her attention to the palace beyond. 

here, he says. la muerte is here.

and then his eyes fall on her again, mesmerized in a way that is almost concerning.