Mount Apikuni and he walks among his people

she tells him she wants nothing. good, he thinks. the shadowmarked has nothing to give her anyway. except for, maybe, the stinging bite of teeth and lash of cold words. that is all the ásabragr cares to offer anyone these days. soon, that will have to change as he sets his gaze upon the broad horizon and guides his intentions towards the empire he will build. for now, he wanders like a reaper, still thirsty for blood and hungry for the flesh of those that deigned to stand in his way. "it is better, you are right," he speaks. his gaze, haunting and frigid like the glacial land his father hailed from, lingers upon her even as she turns her head away. as if he is no interest to her. perhaps he isn't. but he cannot help but feel the slight bristle of hackles at being dismissed. he's spent too much of his life as a king to accept the disrespect. his upper lip curls back from his teeth. he has done so many terrible things. his teeth brought the death of his own daughters. he has tasted and eaten flesh of his own ilk to survive the famine that had commanded death. kjalarr killed for no reason other than he had wanted what the other had had. "startle the wrong wolf and one might find teeth sinking into their throat." he speaks vaguely enough but he means himself. kjalarr does not play games and offers no second chances; startling him is never a wise play, accidental or not. his gaze slides over her once more, focusing his attention to his unmarred eye. "you smell of others." the northman speaks bluntly. "why are you not with them?" he asks. he smells no lingering scent of wolves upon the mount and is left to assume there is some distance between them and her. the desire to hear question answered keeps kjalarr around, for the moment.