Dawnlark Plains ᛁᛚᛚᛏᛁᛋᚾᚨ

forward dated; to be determined when

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ᚦ — early dawn arrives with birdsong and rustling of branches in spring wind. from where he had camped himself, draugr rises. looking around his surroundings with sandstone eyes ablaze with morning's light.
there is a stagnating silence that permeates and clings to the plains; it brings the dark fur at his nape to bristle, despite any attempts to alleviate his sweltering nerves. the titan inhales a breath to fill his lungs and continues on the path he weaves.
searching for signs of clan life in the vast north he has come to walk now. potential allies—or ample opportunity for a raid. he desired now to wet his tongue with bloodshed; in whatever form he could find it. but there was no harm in establishing connections, either.
his jarl-mind ticked.

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anoré's breath came in sharp, ragged gasps that morning. the rising sun cast the land in pale hues, but it did nothing to quell the fire that seethed in her chest. to soothe the inky images of past loves she saw in sleep and cursed in life. she thought herself a fool.
and for that, fury bled from every part of her. from the tips of her claws to the pounding of her incessant heart. stupid girl. 
with a snarl, she rose to her feet, and the wind carried her to the plains. instincts fell on deaf ears—something, someone, was here, who reeked of the heartlands.
she crested a small hill, just a ways from a dark silhouette below. the sight of such a titan sent a jolt through her spine—tall, dark, with muscles that flexed beneath a tough, wihered hide. 
"kol? adonis?" she thinks. no, neither. but the resemblance was so striking that for a moment, it felt like she was looking at a ghost. she knew it wasn't them. but it didn't matter. all she could see were the men who took, and took, and took until they'd reduced her to ash and marrow-sucked bone. until her rage was the only thing she could hold at night. the fire in her chest flared brighter, hotter, until it consumed every shred of reason.
she was upon him like a storm without warning—swift, violent, and angry. the snarl that exploded from her throat  was a feral, guttural thing, a cry so raw it challenged odin's thunder. 
anoré sought to kill. to strip flesh from sinew and string up the corpse. to see the blood-sack sputter and gush beneath her talons and on her tongue. until she'd consumed them as they did her.

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ᚦ — he at first sees beautiful winter maiden come to tame him. sandstone eyes snap to the rise.
she is fire before form. rage before words. he rises and meets her vigor with his own, but does not expect the strength with which she hits him.
his body pivots with warrior’s reflex, one hind paw grinding into earth, front shoulders rising like drawn shields. their teeth click together like the sliding of swords in collision.
her teeth scrape his shoulder. he smells his own blood as it ebbs in thick bullets and soaks her mouth. staining ice fur with crimson. draugr bellows a fierce war-cry and hits her hard, aiming to stagger her back upon hindlegs.
Þú ert galin, kona!

her body writhed with the high of flesh on teeth, of blood drawn and rage tasted. the scent of his lifeblood filled her nose—thick, warm, copper-bright. her paws dragged through the dirt as his strike landed, staggering her back—but not down. 
her jaws parted to snap, but his voice snagged her thoughts from the red and jerked her fury like a bridle.
a vision—barely formed—rushed her: a memory half-submerged in blinking lights. a face glimpsed across a fire-lit camp. the old oaths of her youth, the clan chants, the sinful name whispered in passing breath.
"drøugr?" she faltered mid-lunge and came still. the sound of his voice, boyish then, had deepened. as did the hardiness of his form. 
"hvað í guðanna bænum ertu að gera hérna?" a receding anger was hot beneath her words, but tinged with confusion.

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ᚦ — her pause means nothing to him at first. war does not stop for breath. her falter is seen as feint, and he takes it.
northman slams into her with breakneck force, shoulder-to-chest, forelimbs bracketing her sides. pinning her fiercely beneath him, paws heavy upon ice shoulders. lips peeled back in fury, breath pouring hot over her muzzle as he snarls—
then silence.
his name uttered.
his jaws close but do not bite. he pulls back just an inch. enough to see her fully. “lunarre.”
still shaking with the leftover war-rush in his veins. his chest rises and falls. his eyes burn into hers.

her breath came sharp, chest tight beneath the weight of his shove. the dirt was cold against her back, but his heat—his nearness—burned through her like wildfire.
she stared up at him, stunned in a way battle had never wrung from her.
the world had narrowed to the press of his body against her heaving chest, the scent of blood between them, and the way her name had rolled on his tongue—familiar, reverent, disbelieving. 
"það er ég." she whispered, silvermoon gaze unblinking, for fear if she did, he'd disappear. silence stretched, and her paw laid flat against his collar, "þú fórst frá Hrǫkkhǫfða."

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ᚦ — his father’s hall, his mother’s prayers.
his body remains above hers, muscles taut with confusion, fury. memories long forgotten and long buried.
he does not know this woman. and yet, he does. in some way, a distant silhouette.
his face draws closer instead, eyes locked onto hers with something more than the war-rush now. ég fór. his voice is not a voice but a growl. a guttural, grizzling thing.
ég drap hann. explanation he does not owe her but gives anyway. paws leaving her to step away and into the morning’s harsh light. clouds shedding.
there is no shame. only triumph. his head turns, scarred half-face seeking hers where she remains stationary upon the ground. Þú fórst líka.

she doesn't rise right away. she could only observe the man he'd become. the man she knew he always was.
ég drap hann.
she rolls onto her side, tail sweeping across the thin layer of melting frost, "þú..." she said, more breath than voice. her eyes searched his, unsure if she’d misheard. but there was no lie in his posture. only pride. only black arrogance. 
"gott." her voice was low, firm, "þeir áttu verra skilið." she rose from the ground and stood at her full height. he towered over her now. she could barely recall the days they stood ear to ear. fumbling through backwoods and undergrowth as naive children.
her expression hardened, but there is a grief and a flickering rage beneath the ice. she blinks it away.
"ég varð að."

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ᚦ — manliness and arrogance is what possesses now. long forgotten is the naivety of youth, the brokenness of a boy unloved by father and ignored by mother. but what had always been there: ignorance to the southerners and their politics.
his simple mind just did not understand it. so when she says i had to, his only response is a grunt, a muffled chortle by pressing mouth to thick neck fur, and a flagging of his tail. mm. comes his tsk, tail wagging, and then turning on paws.
muscles rolling beneath a pelt of blanketed, rolling gingers and flame, and midnight ebony. turning smoldering eyes to her, looking now to see her. she wears new scars, but years old; only new to him. they damn what had once been a feminine face, twisting into something strong. he cannot help but indulge the urge that takes hold of his gut now.
og hvað fær þig til að fara, hm? an arrogant comment from an arrogant man, wide berth swinging as he comes fully toward her and pays no mind to any boundaries she may possess. letting his nose stick to her throat, eyes minding her reaction so he may avoid teeth again. but persistent nonetheless, making feral noises as he investigates her scent...
and what contorts it into the alluring thing it becomes. northman growls lowly. he goes now to make bold assumption: þú kemur bráðum á tímabili. hlaupa í burtu frá eiginmanninum svo hann fylli þig ekki af suðrænum fræjum?

she scoffs, sharp against his ear as he presses in close. his tail’s confident sway, the low timbre of his voice—all of it reeked of rut-drunken bravado and northern entitlement.
it was a practiced act that she normally found appealing. but she did not desire his warmth. 
"maðurinn minn er enginn maður. féll í brjálæði. veikburða, aumkunarverður. og börn, farin." she mutters, her tongue as cold as her sneer.
she grunts as he shoves his snout into the plush curve of her throat. the smell of sulfur and bitter steel assaults her senses and she grits her teeth.
he was eager. and she was tired of his prancing, all puffed up with pride like it meant something. it earns him a swift nip to the flushed skin of his neck. a sting he cannot ignore.
when her eyes find him again, they are cold and mean and contemptuous. but deep down she knows, like all northmen, he likes it. the prospect of challenge.
she would make it clear that she would not play his game.
"ég skildi eftir gröf sem myndi ekki hætta að stækka. ég verð þreytt á að vera notuð. eins og verðlaun, eins og gjöf." 
her ears pull back for a moment and she turns, tail lashing behind her, "notaðu mig ekki fyrir hverfula ánægju þína, drøugr."

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ᚦ — he is high upon his own arrogance and watches as she goes. a tail flagging high, a chin raising. a scoff, then a chuff as his parting goodbye.
but he also cannot stop but to speak again. ah, já. farðu! he is sick with northerner's crass humor. if he had a hand with four fingers and a thumb he would rest it upon the axe at his hip, slinging wolf-pelt over his shoulder. fixing her with the sneer of a petty norseman. mm. ég er viss um að maðurinn saknar þín. Ég mun gera þér greiða og óhreinka kvið þitt með mörgum norðanmönnum svo hann þrái þig ekki aftur! he bluffs now, but later? surely not. he fantasizes brief of taking her to bed atop steinhaugr.
it is pride that compels him not to pursue. he does not know yet he will want her, and want her fiercely. that would come with the hour. draugr can only grunt now and hike a foreleg, shooting a stream of stinking piss upon the ground she left behind.
sighing manfully, loud enough for her to hear.