King Elk Forest ᛒlóð hunt

aw for recruiting!

a fresh kill hung from his jaws; a young spike, head and neck hanging limply as he drags it along. he was thin from the winter, but enough to feed the jarl through the night and leave scraps for his favorite vulture (@Matsi).

the lumbering warrior drags it into the glen he has made home for himself, shoulders aching with the effort to pull and the thrill of his hunt. all while his breath puffs in visible clouds. blood trails behind him in a winding path, staining the frost dark.

here, before his den, jarl drops the body. then, he begins to gut it.

yellowed and chipped teeth used to open the belly, steam rising in the dark from the exposed meat which had been living only minutes ago. warm against the winter air.

his breath is louder now, heavier with effort.

snagging this...

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Blood scent is thick on the cold winds. Moonbow had followed it with the hunger of a huntress. Her hunts here had been successful, though she ached to chase and herd the bison she'd grown alongside. Trails led her further south; down from the mouth of the mountain she'd scaled to hunt these lands, down where winter's grip hadn't frozen over.

The trail led her into a quiet glade. There, bent at the knee over a kill, was a warrior. Miténa observed from the undergrowth and snowdust, before she announced herself with a chuff. Eyes of glassy sodalite bright with curiosity and hunger, as she took a step forth. Wary, though, as her toned shoulders squared.

He wouldn't be the first she'd met in these new hunting grounds that led with fang.

jarl does not lift his head right away.
teeth still buried in the gut of the spike, steam still rising from the opened belly, blood slick along the ridges of his muzzle and the thick fur of his chest. he’d been half-deep in the work of it when the chuff of a woman came. feminine but no lingering weakness.
her tone is sharp through Odin's woods, close enough to not flag him as cowardice; and this, slow, draws the attention of the norseman. he turns with muted pawsteps and a crimson-smeared face.
frost eyes sweep over the stranger woman, who appears young; though she is noticeably muscled. already an improvement in comparison to the only other woman to come upon warhall.
easily impressed, not too picky, he gives a low chuff back.
komdu til stela my kill? draugr rumbles with a swipe of his tongue across his bloodied maw and a toothy, yellowed, unfearing grin. stepping away from the half-gutted spike carcass, the jarl widens his stance and puffs out his chest. it is mocking, all feigning bravado.
he chuckles then, false threatening posture relaxing. letting chilled eyes settle on the woman who enters his glen and giving an inviting jerk of his large, blocky head.
komdu, woman, feast.