Witch's Marsh please let me blaze

the marsh is not quiet. it lives a life of its own, a crooning symphony of the small life that called it home. ravens and frogs and owls and other beasts that dominate its wretched existence, that call the witching place home. amidst the own sucking sound of his footfalls in the sloshing and frosted slop of the marsh, her fleet steps are lost. the northerner does not even realize she is there until she calls out to him. his head swings in her direction, glacial gaze locking upon her ruddy form, accented by pale irises. tunglgeisli ...moonbeam.

peryite. she calls him.

the chained has been called many things. keðjuna. frændi vígari ...slayer of kin. but never peryite. hver? the old tongue falls from betwixt his lips without thought, for it has yet to occur to him that there is a good chance these wolves do not speak it.