Firestone Hot Springs this will never end

Stjornuati had not expected that the closeness would bother her, if only because his own nature was basal, physical even. More often than not, the brothers used body language over options more verbose, though this was likely the first time that the Stormskýli had ever comforted a woman, much less one that was weeping. The texture of her scars against the muscle of his tongue was curious, the taste of tears light and hinted at saltiness. Were he more poetic, he might venture to say that he could even taste her sorrow.

Come, He commanded gently, nudging her so that she might turn to follow him. Once more, he picked his way along the springs, though this time he had a purpose, a destination. Through the steam, he strode, the air curling visibly around the two as Stjornuati looked for a spot clear of steam and fog. There, on the side opposite a larger spring, upwind of the warm waters, the larger wolf stopped, glancing back at her before indicating the sky and the stars that shone down from it.

They watch. Always, from fields of Valhalla. He had lost brothers, comrades, and family along the way, and even now, he could only imagine that some of his kin they had left behind were up there now as well. You see?