Hideaway Strath in death's shadow

Qvasir’s ears tilted forward at the sound of her voice, and though her words carried tension, there was a familiarity in their cadence that tugged at something deep within him. The flicker of Spanish, the sharpness of her tongue—it was like hearing an old melody played in a foreign land. He allowed his sharp gaze to soften, only slightly, as he tilted his head to regard her.

Puerco , he echoed, his voice low but steady, as if testing the word on his tongue. A faint smirk played at the edges of his mouth, a rare moment of warmth breaking through his stoic exterior. Sí, I know of the kind. Troublesome creatures.

He let a pause stretch between them, his posture still firm but less guarded now. We speak in tongues, he continued, his tone thoughtful. It’s familiar to me. It speaks of heat, of lands far from here. His pale eyes flicked over her, noting the way she carried herself even in her condition—a proud spirit, unwilling to break.

And yet, here you are, among the cold and unfamiliar, he added, his tone edged with curiosity. What brings you to this place, chica?