Neverwinter Forest carry me down the mountain, water,

strange scent riding the wind towards him. catamaran, hunting partner, laced with another, a stranger, but still fondly of forneskja. rökkur would carry himself upwind, towards the smell of both his packmate and the smell of buck. a carcass on the winds, though lingering with that of a deer that smelt all-too-alive. a strange combination.

and then blonde hair peeked from behind the pine trees, and the shadow—no, the guardian, the sögumaðr—would let out a low huff; an announcement of his approach. he pulled up beside the man, then, eyes scanning the scene in front of him. oh, he murmured, low and gravelly. shocked. disgusted? that is unfortunate.

he meant to ask of the strange scent upon his pelt, but that could wait, now. how long has he been like this? the lorekeeper asked instead. pity gripped his expression, softening, twisting it. nose wrinkled at the smell of death. an awkward, ugly dance that was slowly draining the life of the living deer. he felt the urge to free it. save it.

and so he looked over at catamaran; another question: should we do something about this? he asked, slow, gentle, nodding towards the bucks. was this an indicator of the others time? did the living buck deserve sacrifice? or was this a call of mercy? he did not yet know. but he did know that he could not continue watching for long.