Ravensblood Forest from silence rose a symphony

“Þetta er heilög jörð,” he had said to @Stjornuati as they broached the mountain pass to the coast, “reimt staður.” A low fog lingered with the light mist that had woke them that morning, a chill in the air that only seemed to set the mood. There was a cord of tension in the air that he could not place, an unsettling feeling that crawled beneath the skin on his back that teased his hackles into rising ever so slightly.

It was not the weeping trees or the ravens in their boughs that set him off. It was the heavy shade that lingered here. Lodged between the mountains, the pass had been inviting and the paths worn, but even here he could sense that it had been tainted with turmoil. The feeling had settled long before he had ventured beneath the towering canopy, long before he slunk between the ferns with a working nose that feverishly sought unseen danger. There was none to be found, yet he could not shake the sensation there were more things at play than the woodland let on.

“Hér er hulan þunn,” he went on in a deep thrum, “rigningin þvær grátandi tré og blóð fer til jarðar.” Not that Stjornuati needed to be explained this, his eyes worked just as well as Solpallur’s any day of the week. For all his droning and sudden verbosity, it was clear that the sable northerner was enchanted.

He turned to his brother then with a crooked smile.

“Mér finnst að við verðum í lagi komnir vetur.”