Duskfire Glacier the gods call your name

the dark woman's commands were barked with intensity. as if she would not allowed failure—and svalla would not welcome it, either. she would not fail. nodding feverishly as she listened to the directions. she knows what she must do, to help gjalla live to fight another day. 

and oh, the stormy woman's rage was palpable. she demands the filth's head. svalla's mind is delighted with the image of dragging the man's corpse through the north as a fucking message. 

but her time to fight would come. for now, she would try her hand at healing. 

the dark woman is gone, after pressing such a reverent kiss to the injured woman's temple. svalla's heart swells at such sisterly affection, before her focus is torn to begin her job. 

furiously she would crush and chew the herbs to bits and pieces, molding it into a malleable mixture. her touch, never gentle before, would be so now. this was not to be done with haste, even if the call for the fight awoke the wildling within her.

carefully, she'd pack the herbs into the wound, ears pinned backward and expression pinched. watching as the blood flow began to lessen, hoping it would not clot too fast. she was no healer—but she did not have a choice.

"this war will be won in your name. come dawn, we will bathe in their blood." svalla promised. gjalla would have the man's head, and the north would prevail. as it always had.