Qeya River i have burned & burned

beneath the click of venison joints his ears twitch at the sound of separate breaths; too different to be that of a flighty and doeish prey; and though he's moved on and relaxed the worst of his bristling the chuff that echoes upon stone and ice walls and bounces back to him draws fierce glacial gaze to where a woman cloaked in a pelage of downy ivory approaches. sakhmet's wardog answers this with a low warning of thinly veiled aggression. the warborne berserker has only one category for strangers: not sakhmet; and it is only the rust armored valkyrie that sees the softer side of the helhound.

a curl of his lip is given again, this time aimed directly for the moonbeamed woman. hvað viltu? demands gleipnir in northern tongue, not expecting her to understand. he and sakhmet have learned to co-exist quite well living on a minimal word basis though they can speak more with each new sentence he learns even if he stutters and his tongue tumbles upon the formation of the words. it is easy to parrot her.

wha...what ... — you want? gleipnir demands in poor common, knowing that it doesn't sound quite right but not really caring either way.