Sleeping Dragon death doesn't descriminate between the sinners and the saints

Thuringwethil's howl rose through the frigid winter air, summoning Gyda to her. Gyda's arrival was as prompt as she could make it, though she had to take some time to recover the cache she'd been in the process of stocking when the summon had rose. Thus, it had cost her more time than she would have liked. The shield-maiden often prided herself on being prompt, but she did not hear any signs of distress, no life or death urgency that she could tell so she hadn't been encouraged to abandon the cache so immediately, though Gyda had not been terribly far away. When she did arrive upon the scene at hand, she took a moment to assess it, her eyes drawing, as they so often did, to Heda before, slowly, the icy caribbean gaze flickered over to the thing. It wasn't fair of her to assume anything, really, she realized, and for the record he looked like a wolf but also not like a wolf, nor a coyote, either. His ears were wrong and his fur appeared to be curly in some places. 

He looked indisposed, though Gyda had never completed her medic training to the level of her mother, or Lucani she suspected. As she had grown that obsession had moved onto more immediate things: things that would come to aid her further in her life, that would bestow upon her the honored title of shield-maiden when she'd reached Ragnar's birth home. “What has happened here?” Gyda addressed Thuringwethil, though she continued to study the unknown male for a few moments longer, evidenced with a small sliver of disgust before she turned her muzzle up as she focused her attention to Thuringwethil, awaiting Heda's explanation.