Blackfoot Forest blood magic

Anything in particular in Ragnar's history/future that you want me to hint at? :D

The wily skulk of foxes led Ragnar deeper into the woods, popping their little heads out of shrubs and hollow trunks to make sure he was following. Eventually, the canopy was thick enough to block out all direct light, and the forest took on a dimness reminiscent of an overstuffed and unexplored attic. Time had allowed the trees to crowd, and the forest floor was uneven with crisscrossing roots and a variety of hardy mosses.

Nestled at what must have been its very heart was a small clearing, well-worn with the passing of the family of creatures that called it home. The centerpiece was natural well of dark, rancid water, no bigger than a dinner plate. Someone had built the edges up with pebbles and twigs, like the nest of some hellish waterfowl, and the surface was covered with floating greenery. The foxes scurried in to sit at the edges of their tree-lined oasis, giving Nanna's soup a wide berth. Even without wind to carry its scent, it smelled.

"You - you, sweet-moon," a voice crackled from the shadows at the far end of the clearing, where a partially fallen tree had ripped open a seam in the earth. Paws had dug down to rock, and now it was the size of a bear's den. The shape of something thing and wobbling began to emerge from the ground. "Too far south Viking wolves."