Arrow Lake “red moon turns a red horizon.”

very few times in ingram’s life had he felt and been dispossessed by wrath — yet seeing the looming boar, and knowing intimately it’s’ business among blodreina’s stony sepulcher, ingram was immediately besieged by fury.

he did not think of diaspora’s borders. he did not think it odd their scent all but gone, no stern-faced mahler come to remind ingram of his betrayal. he saw only the ugly truth — the scavenger, the survivor — ruminating among the foul keep that marked blodreina’s grave.

ingram strode past the sunken opal, forgetting its fiery surface and the reason he had come all this way to absolve his grief. his vision was consumed by the coarse-headed pig, its snout rimed with the fleckings of his deceased mate. a low growl purled in his throat, his yellow eyes matching that inhospitable stare of his opponent.

and without thinking, the eyjolfur lunged into a seamless gallop — a snarl of sorrow and wrath gurgling over in his throat like thundercrack. fuck off, you bastard! he cried into the wind, his voice contorted by anguish. his eyes brimmed in hopeless tears as he lunged to save the memory and integrity of his lost mate, buried under ten tons of insensate rubble and forever oblivious to the seemingly endless toils of the living.