Larksong Grotto what gods desire

A woman in white had joined them, her presence as soft as freshly fallen snow, yet her wit as keen as the razor edge of the blizzard’s strike. She was no norsewomen. Not in blood.

Aspa narrowed her eyes, intrigued. She paid no heed to the tension in the air—so thick she could have seized it between her fangs—and advanced toward the stranger with slow, deliberate steps. Her head was lowered, ears erect, her gait steady, her gaze alight with curiosity.

Without ceremony, as she had done with the towering warrior, she set about a swift appraisal. At last, she came to a halt at the woman’s flank, her milky eye widening as she studied her, brushing against her lightly with the edge of her whiskers.

"Du bærer ulveunger." No gift of prophecy was needed to see it.
"Guderne hvisker – Nordens børn. Krigere!"

She straightened, then returned to her place between the two warriors.

"Faust, af Darukaal." she acknowledged with a slight nod.
"Blizzardske dame er altså Winsook." She concluded, before settling down, her right eye drifting shut to grant it a moment’s reprieve.

"Nordmand har ikke truet." she then declared.
"Guderne har ført ham til mig, ligesom guderne har ført dig til Norden og derefter til mig." She nodded, as if to etch her words into the fabric of fate itself.