Altar of Twilight bad company until the day i die

because i am lazy and don't feel like translating we'll pretend that the speech in italics is norse. :p no need to match the length, i got carried away, lol! @Wildfire c;

The night was warm, least it was warm to the wardog whom had been born around the howling winds of the worst blizzard the motley crew of wolves that had called themselves Warmongers had claimed to have witnessed. The kind of blizzard that the riders of the Wild Hunt rode in on to bring about the destruction of the earth; though these were exaggerations Sigtýr had came to learn from early on. The Norse were famous, or perhaps infamous for their exaggerated stories spoken by the bards and berserkers alike. It was claimed that Freyja herself had taken the life of Sigtýr's slave mother,  soon after she had given birth to him. Yet, those were what they were: stories. It was true his mother had not lived but perhaps an hour after she had pushed him out into the world but it was likely the trauma of labor that had done her in, as opposed to the queen of the valkyries. Or perhaps Sigtýr himself had been her harbinger of death. Whatever the case he knew little about her, not even what she had looked like for his father never spoke of her and when the inquisitive, and foolish child he'd been had questioned about her he was met with the sharp prick of his father's teeth at his throat, the promise of death should he persist clear in the lackluster glean of his the elder male's eyes.

His slave wives lingered on either side of him as the trio made their progression through the darkening foreign wilds. The fiery mottled monochrome colored one he called Herja claimed her usual and favored spot to his right while the delicate brown sugar and cream colored french woman known as Eir kept loyaly to his left, always more demure then her pistol of a companion. He took the leading steps, always a few paces ahead of them, though sometimes he lingered at the rear enjoying the view to protect. Of course he protected what was his. They were precious to him in the only way that the wardog could find anything precious. It was a possessive affection, misguided though it undeniably was. 

The skies were rapidly darkening above them and their progression had slowed enough for him to hunt for them. He brought the warm hares to them where they awaited him, waiting to be sure they ate until their bellies were full — for he would not have his slave wives malnourished — before he fed himself. It wasn't kindness that this way of thinking was born of but his own greed and want. He did not want famished women, they would be well fed and they would be lavished like queens to ensure that they did not leave him (sort of like a harem) but it was all for him in the end despite how it might have seemed to anyone else.

Herja spoke up for them, gesturing towards the fairer sister wife woman, requesting some rest. He studied them: blood splatters tarnishing their chests in places, and let out a low grunt. He turned away from them for a moment to study the moonlight walls of the towering peaks they'd drawn to. His hackles bristled slightly: he could smell the urine scents of a pack close by and it inherently made him nervous to allow them to wonder from him despite that he knew they would not go too far. “Go rest,” He murmured having made his decision, fixating his golden gaze upon them as they rose at his approach. He offered Eir a caress against her muzzle, earning him a soft giggle from the frenchwoman, before he nipped, perhaps a bit roughly, at Herja's cheek, his lips moving to linger by the more vocal woman's ear. “Do not go far, Herja,” Before he pulled back to address Eir as well. “There is a pack close by our position, be alert and call for me if there is trouble. I will join you soon.” The wardog spoke to them in his native, guttural tongue. He was not tired, yet. 

It was easy for him to forget that they were not used to wandering as he was, that they did not share his sense of restlessness. He watched their silhouettes melt into the shadows of the night as they searched for a place for them to rest. His tail lashed behind him once, before he began forward in the direction opposite of his slave wives, black leathery nose lowered towards the ground though he was not yet sure what he was hunting for.