Emberflame Ridge oh wrap the ground around

there is something about this ridge that attracts wardruna naturally. though it is just earth, something to be claimed or avoided, he thinks as he ventures further into the trees where small pockets are left charred. the smell of burning wood and ash linger even though he sees no immediate fires and no traces of swelling smoke as his functioning eye traces the tree line overhead. perhaps his attraction lay in the simple fact that the territory is scarred; like him. scars are a natural part of his culture — none stay as unmarred as a newborn babe for long — but his are not earned with pride but rather humiliation of losing and living. the gods cast him from the hall of heroes, rejecting him and condemning him back to the earth. he has little to complain about now, he'll readily admit. he has a home. he has two beautiful wives. it's nothing to sneeze at.

as if on some kind of ironic cue, wardruna takes in a deep breath and lets out a sneeze as the lingering scent of smoke and burnt wood tickles his nose. he hesitates feeling another sneeze building only to be left with the lingering disappointment as it fizzles out the second his body prepares to expel it. he scowls and squints his right eye at the darkening skyline seconds before the heavens open up and rain pours from the heavy overcast clouds above. he sulks towards the mountain hoping to find refuge from the rain and lightening that causes the fur at the nape of his neck to bristle with lingering static electricity. he does not necessarily want to be the next charred and smoking thing on this ridge and that alone is motive enough to encourage wardruna to pick up his pace.