Duck Lake weeping willow

Björn’s caribbean blue eyes bore into her at her bold statement of his motives, the ice writhing around his abysmal pupils as he raked his tongue along the backs of his teeth, gathering that she did not have a faith of her own. Her dismissive words, even if the tone had not been such, had irritated the devout savage. “No,” He contradicted her assumption with finality, figuring that it would do no good to explain because he doubted she would understand it, no matter how many times he explained it. A brief shake of his head was given, wondering how they could call him a savage when at least he believed in beings bigger and more powerful than him. Gods that he loved and feared. He said nothing in farewell to her as she spoke of her own throne and watched her head back to Swiftcurrent Creek. The consideration that he had just spoke with his son’s superior entered in his mind as he watched her go, but he did not draw forth any words for she was already going and it was time that he returned to the Ridge at any rate.

Turning his back to the lake he began to make his journey back.