Firestone Hot Springs this will never end

Stjornuati was loose lipped with this one; he had been talking a while, if Solpallur knew him any. But then again they were often drawn to the scarred kith, ever wondering if there were other drengr left to wander the land just as they did. Wayfarers without places to call their own, who toted their skills about and hinged their successes on survival. The brothers had their scars too, but they were not as prevalent as this one, and he did not know whether it was of her own volition she had earned them or if she had been subjected to something else, something far worse.

He continued to clutch the meal between his jaws, his own lips sealed tight around the bloodied fur. Solpallur was never the social one, at least not overly so, and certainly not when his brother was there to do the decisive action of understanding and translating. But the dark-haired hellion was not as poorly tongued as he oft pretended to be; he had his moments where he too could be verbose—at least in comparison to his usual fare of conversation—and smart enough to understand.

But it was easier to let there be a barrier, as often actions spoke louder than words.

His gaze held Arlette tightly, scrutinizing her without entirely meaning to. His default position and expression, the standoffish and turbulent, at best unpredictable. Her inquiry into the hringja was a disquisitive point for him—did she have her own to answer to? To listen for? His brother had been less than forthcoming with information beyond her name, which made him wonder just what all had transpired between them already.

It wouldn’t have been the first time a woman had caught their eye, or at the very least only one of them.