Qeya River outstretched arm, and upturned hand

@Ingram squeaks in apology for the wait.

wardruna doesn't mind the endless stream of inquiries that spill from his companion. he is curious and curiosity is not a bad thing. the king god had sacrificed much in pursuit of it. thankfully, imrathil did not have to give anywhere near as much as the king god. it is only the loss of wardruna's own fluency that draws forth the seething annoyance that he feels. it is always aimed at himself. failure wasn't an option. not before, not now, not ever. he knows that the more time they spend here, the more ...social they are, the quicker he'll latch onto common tongue once more. wardruna knows this but tries to hide his cringe at the thought of being social beyond imrathil all the same. he is a taciturn beast happy with his own small social circle. once, it consisted of his collection of wives. now, it exists for imrathil solely.

imrathil cursed the rocks, the south, the jotunns ...and then the river, drawing wardruna to glimpse at him from the corner of his functioning eye. it isn't funny, per say; but it draws a low chuckle from the northerner all the same. to Hel with them all. he echoes in low but firm agreement. wardruna offers a grunt of approval as imrathil chooses the spot for them to rest and then sneers in amusement at the inquiry of what was for dinner; if only because it bring to his mind a single word húsmóðir. irregardless, wardruna knows he'll venture out for the hunt because it's what he's always done. he might grumble in half-hearted annoyance but it's a front. he doesn't mind. every successful hunt is another time he's beaten his disability. another spite towards those who cast him out. another tidbit of proof that the gods have not forsaken him.

what are you hungry for? wardruna inquires.

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309 words