Stone Circle the devil in hell’s kitchen

The northerner is successful in his plight as the meat tears from Noma’s grip, earning him a muffled yelp from his thrall. His functioning pupil narrows into a near slit as she glimpses into his eyes. I’m in charge, his eyes tell her. The meat is cold, hard even against his stronger grasp. The whole purpose of taking her as thrall was to keep her alive, to nurse her back to health and he’s been so frustrated with her absolute refusal to take anything he offers her knowing that she will simply waste away. He supposes he should be happy that she wished to sate her hunger but he’s not. He’s not because by sneaking out she’s taken the power from him and that wasn’t how their ….relationship worked. He intends to give it back to her, now that he thinks he’s proven his point of ‘you eat what I give you’ but before he can even take so much as a step towards her another crashes onto the scene sticking his nose where it’s most unwelcome and blurting out questions.

Wardruna’s jaw clenches around the meat, resisting the urge to bear his teeth in annoyance. He bids it back, thinking rapidly to try to manipulate the situation to his advantage. The Gods may have taken away his brawn and brawling prowess but they did not strip him of his mind: that is still sharp, still deadly. If not more so. The male has no context of what has happened: he knows only what he has seen but without reason. Wardruna spits the meat out at his paws and physically turns his head to fixate the unknown male in his singular gaze. “This meat is not good,” The northerner speaks in his heavy accent, taking a moment to think through his next translation. “Not fresh. Almost rotted. Look at her. She needs good meat. Fresh meat. I was hunting for her but the prey escaped me.” Oh! It burns to speak of it, burns like acid upon his tongue. Yet, it effectively works to his story. In hindsight, he is grateful for his failure now ( though it still smarts, make no mistake ). Always lace lies with the truth: it makes it more believable, he’s come to learn.

“I have her nursing back to health,” The translation in his head is a tangle of words mixing and mingling: northerner and common but Wardruna has realized that his translations will never match up perfectly: the common tongue has words that his mother tongue does not and vice versa. “She’s my kona, ah …what’s the word …my wo-woman?” He tests it out on his tongue, feeling it heavy and strange. He looks to Noma then, his gaze lingering for a moment longer before Wardruna’s head swings back to the unnamed pack-mate.