Wapun Meadow cast by their grave-beseeming ornaments

The girl lowers herself into submission despite the bristle of her fur and Wardruna studies her with hunger in his functioning eye: drinking in the submission and letting it fuel and empower him. She speaks to him, at first, in a tongue that is similar to his own native language — perhaps of a different region of the north — but then she speaks in northerner and his entire mood and body shifts. Surprise takes him in full force and his ears perk with great interest atop his skull, tail brushing against his hocks in intrigue and invitation. She is like him, he believes. This one is special, he thinks. “Nei, ég mun ekki meiða þig.” Wardruna tells her softly: as if she were a frightened animal he anticipates to take flight. In a way, he does anticipate that. He does not wish it to be so but he is prepared for it nevertheless. “ég er Wardruna. Hvað heitir þú?” He inquires with a curious tilt of his head and a ghost of a step closer though he is still sure there is more than ample distance between them. He will not be able to catch her if she runs: his contorted depth perception makes sure of that and one more he's left with a burning hatred for the damage done to his eye but is quick to tuck it away in the wake of the lovely and familiar — in a way that meeting another of one's people is familiar — woman's presence.

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