Lost Creek Hollow without you

Wardruna is not sure if she necessarily allows the touch of his nose to her flesh for she flinches away as he draws nearer. He hesitates only for a moment, weary of a flash of teeth or any sort of retaliation. It does not come and he follows through with his intended action. He inhales deeply, noting that her flesh is not as warm as he thought it should be. Beneath the simple touch she has gone frigid, utterly still. It’s almost too easy. He recoils his head after deducing that he scents no illness but circles around her slowly to get a better assessment of her. He wonders what kind of fire she once harbored, what fire she had the potential to harbor. It would be a waste to let her potential slip, he thinks. Would her fire be fierce: like a supernova, that which would burn him should he get too close? Or would it be gentler? Warmth, like the fire of a comforting hearth? He slides along her opposite side. “þér líður kalt,” Wardruna speaks to her in northener first and then offers the common translation as best he can: “You feel cold.” Wardruna observes simply. Would he have been anything other than he was he would have felt guilt at taking advantage of her state. He feels no guilt, for it is the very nature of the beast. Only the loveliest were taken as thralls in Jötunn Spine and her beauty, as hollow as it currently is, is a curse, calling to the northern beast in Wardruna. She would make a fine validation that he is northern despite his exile, despite his failure to win and failure to die, despite his partial blindness. Yet, he does not think the wolves of Easthollow will take kindly to him claiming her as his thrall and he frowns slightly in thought as he thinks about how to best proceed because he wants her and that is all the reason he needs. “There is a pack not far from here I recently joined. They may have space for you.” He suggests in his soft, lilted accent, taking a step away from her to see if she would remain the statue she's become.