Heron Lake Plateau a treason bestowed to the crowd

Sweetness meant nothing to him. It did not matter how much those words dripped with saccharine; he was a savory-tongued beast with a wet mouth and sharp teeth. Teeth that displayed with the crude smile that he made at the mockery; if there were malice to be found in it then it may have been a glint in his gaze buried beneath a helping heap of amusement. Maybe it was a genuine reaction—he knew nothing about the overall demeanor of these wolves here. If they hadn’t made their trails and left their refuse behind he would have thought he and Stjornuati had found a true wilderness.

“Þér líkar það sem þú sérð,” he rattled off in his tongue, still smiling. The steps he took towards the wolf then came with ease though he curttailed them shortly, turning himself as though to show off. He laughed that ugly, rapsy chime. It wheezed and trailed off as he drew his gaze back to the basalt glow of the other. But he remembered that this was not his stórr norþæn and the other would not understand him.

This too was to mean nothing.

“This one thinks you lie,” he rumbled then, but the smile remained.