Witch's Marsh stones and bones

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The setting sun cast an eerie glow to the Witches' Marsh, dull with it's drab greys and olives. The shrubbery was lackluster as the muck that was the marsh's floor. It smelled wretched — like partially digested lunch of a giant of the sagas. It's filth carved a disgusted grimace upon scarred lips yet he did not turn or deign to retreat around the marsh. Through it was undoubtedly the quickest way. To double back now would waste what precious light of the witching hour lingered. The devourer moved through the slick muck, snapping his sharp teeth together in belated annoyance each time he (occasionally) found a paw stuck in the sticky sludge and pulled up with force, splattering his marred face with droplets of mud (and other things he shuddered to think), a loud sucking noise accompanying the brief swell of relief that the freedom brought with it. Eventually, he found a path of solid earth, the dirty moss pliable and soft underfoot and followed it instead.

Ragnar's legacy bespoke to him across the distance, tales of his father falling had reached his ears even in Svartalfheim. As the rightful heir to the legend's throne as any, Rigr came prepared to conquer. Led by the calling of the Norns as they whispered in his dreams, weaving their visions of glory, fame and power. Whispering in his slumber that he, as a true Viking son, deserved the bloodied, ash tree and bone crown more than any of his brothers or sisters. He glimpsed about, bi-colored eyes staking out his path with unhindered hyper-vigilance, alert and unsettled. Rigr spared a glimpse over his shoulder once as his hackles bristled. He was assured that, for the moment, he was alone and yet he got the distinct feel of eyes on him. Perhaps it was the Gods, the Norns or the dead. Regardless, he kept pushing forth hoping to be gone from the marsh within the hour.

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