Larksong Grotto Ankärr

<3

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on skorpa the gods took a small pity: his life was not forfeit within the mountains where he had fought a drengr over a goat and a woman. such foolishness on his part. muzzle would heal into a mass of criss-crossing scars, and on one side his lip had been torn so badly that he did not believe it would cover his teeth again.

his forehead was a mass of congealed blood, shoulders riddled with cuts just scabbing. but the worst was the gash along his belly. that it had missed his vitals did not matter, not when it had started to ooze green beneath the swollen flesh.

fever took skorpa as he left the stone halls; by the time exile reached taiga, his mind had begun to melt. rudimentary knowledge of plantlife kept him breathing.

he fell into the grotto with a groan, a curse that asked what joking his gods played, to free him once and then kill him again.

here was water scented without the strength to reach its surface.

and as skorpa descended into a heat-marked night, he laughed. regvand was not far, nostrils flaring before he succumbed to fever dreams.

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