Witch's Marsh please let me blaze

gleipnir watches her, mutedly, not thinking her anxiety was anything to be curious about. they are strangers and she, she is young. he cannot determine specifics but he can easily determine that she she is younger than him. not even a yearling.

peryite, please...

the girl's tone is a plea. for a moment, gleipnir is reminded of his brothers during hólmganga ...how they pleaded for their lives. he hadn't listened. their disputes could only be settled by their deaths, and so they had been. she seeks something from him, desperately he thinks, he cannot fathom what. he only recognizes her words as a plea because of her tone. his grasp on the common tongue is stunted. limited. he was not cut from an diplomatic cloth. when siv summoned him to raid, or to battle with his berserker brothers and sisters it was not to speak.

his ears flutter back as he tries to pick through the words he does know for one that she would understand. when that fails and he feels the stoking embers of frustration build within his chest he tests the name ...or is it word? on his tongue, parroting the strange sounds she makes to form it, peryite?.