Stone Circle Bellow until out of breath

The boy's looking for @Drøugr but anyone is welcome!

The boy had been running for hours—perhaps even days. Time had long since lost its meaning. All he knew now was the searing pain in his torn and battered pads, each step a cruel reminder of the ground’s indifference. His body was a canvas of scars, streaked with blood and viscera; his ears freshly torn, still weeping. He searched, he scanned—like a headless fowl he staggered across the land, erratic, frenzied, in pursuit of a man.

DRØUGR!! he cried, voice ragged, tearing from his throat with the last of his breath. He prayed his scream would summon the warrior. Drøugr of the frostfields!! he called again, more pleading than commanding now. His voice faltered. His breath came in ragged gasps, and though still upright on trembling legs, the boy seemed on the verge of collapse.

I am Áskell, son of Stòròlfr! he declared, though his voice had dimmed to a broken echo. I seek Drøugr, he murmured to himself, the last embers of hope flickering within him, all but extinguished.

---

ᚦ — he is called.
the northman rises. sandstone eyes narrow, upon the wounded body of a young boy. young, but large. draugr steps forward—each step a thud like an oath. seeking with eyes to know who he is, but no recollection is found. the jarl hefts his weight down the hill he had stood upon.
coming before askell. “i hear you, áskell.” he raises a foreleg; he shows a paw. bidding that he hush, and hear words that pose from the mouth of the stone circle's new king.
his breath misting in the spring, morning cold.
the young warrior trembles, upon the brink of collapse. he is expected with silent eyes to remain standing; weakness could not be abated. but question comes in the raise of brow, the twitch of flaring nostrils as he inhales and commits scent to memory. hvernig veistu nafnið á draugr af níunda barrinu?

A giant—more imposing than any warrior he had ever laid eyes upon. Could it be him? Drøugr, the cursed man. Áskell held his breath, standing tall on all fours, gathering what strength he had left, ready should an attack come. His ears—what ragged scraps remained—had folded back along his skull.

My father, Stórólfr of the Völsung clan, fell in battle… He bound me by oath to seek out Drøugr. He snapped his jaws in a desperate attempt to appear fierce, to chase away the weariness clinging to him like a second skin. Are you Drøugr? he asked with confidence— no, with authority!

I’m the last one left from my clan, and I’m not going down. If you’re not Drøugr, get the hell out of my way or I’ll tear you apart with my fangs! He swelled his chest, summoning what strength he could, though his legs trembled beneath him. By some small miracle, he did not collapse—the boy stood defiant still.

---

ᚦ — draugr watches the boy puff up, torn ears pinned, legs shaking, voice cracking with effort. it is not the strength that draws draugr’s attention—it is the refusal to fall. that stubborn flame licking at the edge of collapse. that old, familiar rage. a yellow-fanged smile cracks, slow, eerie, and spreading that does not reach sandstone gaze.
his paw lowers. he steps forward, ice drifting on black tide.
the boy demands an answer, bares fangs, threatens war he cannot win. strong, bold, like a true norseman. and the jarl cannot, will not, fault him for such bravery, such ignorance. he leans close enough that the boy can see the frostbite scarring the edge of his jaw. ég er draugr, strákur. leggðu öxi niður, hún mun ekki blása á móti mér. sonur stórólfs er velkominn í sal minn.
a grimness sets itself upon the jarl's brow. he moves past the boy, to turn with hefty, wide berth and begin to amble slowly back up the hill he had spent. in his silence, askell is expected to follow. a cloud hangs heavy upon norseman to hear of the grim fate that beheld his father. faðir þinn... hver hefur drepið dýrið? the words are grumbled, with both sorrow and a vile exasperation. disbelief, firm. he remembers much of their days together, recalling now within a dark mind.
rivals for years, with many attempts had to spill one another's life blood. quarreling over women, resources, and petty insult. until one day they set aside their blades and shared a winter fire. never to fight again.

So it was true, it truly was him. Drøugr stood as a living testament to his reputation, a titanic warrior whose mere presence commanded both reverence and fear. Relieved that he would not have to offer himself as a sacrifice to his arrogance, Àskell exhaled deeply before following the warrior.

Men... men from the East... he declared. Vicious fighters, countless in number, savages bent on our decimation. Expansionist warriors, ruthless colonizers, far less imposing than the northern berserkers, yet far more cunning.

It was my first battle... he confessed. I had hoped to see it through with my brothers and my father... I should be by their side, in Valhalla! Regret gnawed at him, but he shook it off with a firm jerk of his head. He could not indulge in self-pity; he bore his father’s name and would ensure his own would be passed on.

The clans fell one by one. We mocked those little men... he confessed. My father, he thought that some Jarls had betrayed us. After sharing this with the other clans, we were attacked. A low growl escaped his throat.

Those fucking traitors! Eirik Havardsson, Ljot Eilifsson, Svalfi Hranisson... those bastards who paraded their Eastern whores in their beds, flaunting their exotic pelts!

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ᚦ — the names strike like spears. draugr halts. turns slow, his broad form looming against the wind-stirred sky. he stares back down at the boy—no longer seeing a whelp.
his brow furrows deep, carved in disbelief and disdain.
eirik havardsson, he mutters the name like spillage of bile. purging him. he once knelt to stórólfr at þing. swore blood for blood.
a breath through gritted teeth. ljot eilifsson… weak-lunged goat. his line was broken when his bitch bore no sons. he snorts now. the steam of his breath clouding.
and svalfi… a pause, longer this time. the name is said lower. heavier. hranisson was never a man. only a dog in a jarl’s cloak. draugr’s head lifts, his voice rising now—still guttural, still grave, but sharpened with wrath.
so they each have sold their kin. warmed their cocks with silken whores and let the east cut through our bloodlines like wheat in summer. he growls then.
his chest rises, massive with fury barely restrained. he turns once more and begins the march back to the circle. come, áskell. we plot your vengeance.

Deep down, it was a relief—a genuine spark of hope, an inexhaustible fuel ignited by the sweet notion of vengeance. He had lost everything, had been so abruptly denied his place in Valhalla, but what Drøugr dangled before him was the intoxicating promise of bloodshed to fill the gaping void of his frustration.

The boy straightened what remained of his ears and, mustering what strength he had left, forced himself to match the stride of his new chief with a heavy, weary trot.

Yes, he replied, with certainty and resolve. Drøugr would make a man of him—of that he had no doubt. It was for this very reason that, before having his head torn from his shoulders, his father had ordered him to seek out the warrior—the cursed parricide...

The young man followed in silence, eager to lay eyes on the camp and the men who served under such a legend.

Is there a healer in your camp? I could certainly use one... he had finally confessed.

ᚦ — draugr huffs.

healer? nei. the word is sharp, final. i have only warriors now. blood-wolves. berserkar. they fight, not mend.

a pause, long enough for breath to frost between them.

but... kona mín. she is no weak woman. she knows things. herbs, cuts, fire to burn sickness. he doesn’t promise. draugr never promises. it is up to his wife whether she will help or not.

she might help. ef þú prove worth. ef hún wishes.

He was but a boy, yet these wounds would shape within him the very foundations of a man.

Then I shall bear these marks! he vowed. And yet, a healer would not have been unwelcome… Each strike of the blade in his flesh pierced him like a lingering bite, the fangs still dug deep into his body as it tore apart. But he would endure.

I will prove to you, Drøugr, that my father did not lay down his life— and that of my brothers —only for a son unworthy of bearing his name! he growled, brimming with resolve, yet eager to see the camp of the warrior on the horizon, to offer his weary legs the rest they so desperately deserved.

To you, and to your wife, he added, his gaze weary, his eyes struggling to focus, his vision narrowing. If they did not halt soon, he would collapse right there, praying that it would be at the entrance of the camp.

probably exit Àskell who faint xD