Deepwood Weald blood of the north

the goat had fallen clean. snapped its leg on the ridge and tumbled into the ravine below. by the time raedwulf found it, the thing was already too weak to stand.
a gift, then.
his paw rests firm atop its neck, pressing it to a broad slab of weather-worn stone nestled between the roots of a crooked pine. old blood has darkened the cracks there. this is not the first.
gehyraþ mē, ēagan ūplice, his voice rises.
nimath þās lāc, nā for hungor, ac for þanc. he sees no fear in its eyes—only the stillness of beasts who know their place in the old order. his jaws close around its throat, precise, and clean. blood comes in thick rivulets.
for lencten. for mæġð. for blōd.
blood pools at his feet, steaming faintly where it meets the cold rock. the scent is thick—metallic, sacred. when he speaks again, his voice is lower. steadier. a warrior’s breath made humble. bēoþ gemildē, ēagan ūplice, raedwulf's chest rises and falls. his flanks following suit, and power trembling within a kept body as he remains shadowing the bleeding sacrifice. blētsiāþ þā bearn þe iċ bringe forþ. his head lifts, eyes seeking the heavens above, ġehealdaþ hīe fram slǣge, fram hungre, fram wēste.
he lowers his head again—this time not to the kill, but to the stars. submission not to men. but to the gods.