Witch's Marsh please let me blaze

The blurted word only further cracked the fear in her, a deep vein running to her very core at this moment. Peyrite, god of pestilence. Hers. The one she sought comfort from the most when there was so much decay in her wake. Deceased brothers, deceased (former) pack mates, a winter wounded world. Peyrite had been her source of comfort in it all and she knew this man could not be that. Not with the waves of discomfort rolling inside of her mind.

Gleipnir. . . ? She tried hesitantly, afraid of possibly misinterpreting what he had say. Is that your name? It very well could have been a title — she was awfully familiar with a range of them — or even a word not in her language.