Nova Peak let your colors bleed and blend with mine

Mordur followed his master, though was falling behind slightly. He was smaller and bonier than Sasha, most of the prey he caught he gave to her. It was his duty to protect and provide for her. He was her þræll, or slave in their home tongue, and though they'd become like brother and sister, the vikings of their home pack abused slaves like him, and he would never stop being afraid. He loved Sasha like a sister, and feared her all the same. He didn't want to anger her, so the young black male pushed himself to catch up. They were climbing a mountain, which he hated. He hated that they hadn't gone to the coast. He hated that they'd gone to the coldest place when he said he told himself he was done with cold. But he couldn't protest. It wasn't his place to do so. 

So instead, Mort grumbled to himself, kicking rocks angrily as he tailed the brown puffball. Soon she stopped to admire the view from the peak and drink from the fresh mountain runoff. She always had loved pretty things. Mordur liked them too. They gave him hope. Staring at the wide expanse of trees below them, he began to wonder about their future here. It was beautiful, yet oddly dead looking. He wondered what had happened here. He turned to look at Sasha, head hung submissively and lime green eyes wide. Erum við hætt, Sasha? He asked, waiting patiently for her response. His feet told him to rest, his brain was screaming at him not to care what she said and just sleep, but the slight fear of abuse still nagged at his mind, so he waited.