Larksong Grotto my pride

there is silence following faust's final plea, where blackfell watches quietly. a simmering anger, that resounds from him in pulsating waves. each one a throb more powerful than the last, washing over the dripping tension that resonated between the two norsemen. the onyx man stared upon skorpa, then, fixing him with his eyes so that he then would hear his voice.
hann er hrokafullur kjáni sem hugsar vel um sjálfan sig og slær samt í skottið þegar tennurnar eru lyftar upp í háls hans sjálfs. each word seething hotter than the last. ég stóð sjálfur fyrir áskorun og hann stóðst það ekki. það var þegar hann leitaðist við að drepa konu mína.
it was a crime.
a crime against all norsemen. a crime against tradition as they knew it.
a crime that must not go unanswered.
það er kominn tími til að leggja þetta smáræði til hliðar. hann hefur hótað konunni minni, he stands between both now, speaking to both. það er aðeins tímaspursmál hvenær hann kemur til þín næst. it is the truth as blackfell sees it. then, pointedly to faust. og þitt.
he did not know ayovi, but if faust was sweet on her, then he could put aside her bluster upon the glacier. as for svalla—she had vowed to fight when she did not have to. their hatchet had been buried.

skulum nú berjast. the battle ran deep in all of their veins. sem bræður.