Hideaway Strath in death's shadow

The sound of the twig’s snap was deliberate, a calculated intrusion into the silence. Qvasir’s pale gaze caught the faint movement of the figure at the riverbank, her hurried motions betraying both her desperation and exhaustion. He lingered in the shadows of the foliage, his tall frame a ghostly silhouette against the encroaching night.

You carry yourself you've got nowhere left to go, he observed, his voice calm and low, its stoicism laced with a subtle edge. He stepped forward, his dark coat catching the fading light, his posture non-threatening yet unyielding. The scent of blood reached him as he drew closer, its metallic tang telling him what her gait already had.

He tilted his head slightly, studying her with a measured gaze. The limp, the dried blood on her shoulder, the weariness that clung to her—each detail spoke volumes.

You look worse than most I’ve found out here, he continued, his tone impassive but not unkind. A fight? He gestured toward her wound with a slight nod. Or something else?

Qvasir waited, his presence calm but deliberate, offering neither salvation nor condemnation, only the chance to explain—or remain silent.