The Heartwood Slowly tears you apart

There was a tension between them now which Kigipigak regretted, so he focused on the work, as he often did when things became unbearable to him. He felt the shadow's eyes upon him but he did not answer further questions, focused instead upon the buck and the pulling of its hide, or the cutting of the meat from the bone. It was messy. It was wet-work. It was everything Kigipigak had enjoyed about being a warrior and a man—but he could not find enjoyment in the company of this stranger now, and he could not shake the memories that now filled his mind so virulently.

He felt suddenly foolish for speaking of curses; Kigipigak, ever the stoic and pragmatist, who had refused for so long to even consider praying to the gods of his wife or her people; now, claiming this place to be evil. It was not the place, and he knew that—it had been a slip of the tongue, and one he could not explain. An apologetic look crossed his features when Solharr asked, but there was no answer he could give that would make sense, not without explanation that Kigipigak was not ready to give.

The man had questions and he had every right to ask them—wanting to know more than what vague warnings Kigipigak could share. The northman found himself with a tongue of lead, and he could not explain without delving back in to the trauma of his loss, which he was not yet equipped to do. Your wife, he now found himself questioning—Is she one of your people? Did you meet her here? He asked to distract himself, and to learn more about this stranger who would choose that precious forest for a home. When enough had been cut from the buck that Solharr might be able to carry back alone, Kigipigak finally stopped. He was slick and red, up to his chest.