Deepwood Weald blood of the north

for a moment, the only sound between them was the slow patter of blood on stone. sigvard had seen such rites before—had participated and done them himself, had felt the weight of the gods press into his bones like something half-remembered, half-forgotten.

he did not move closer, but he did not turn away. 

the scent of mingles with pine, a perfume of death and devotion. he let it settle in his lungs, let it stir something in the marrow of him. it was an old thing, this reverence—older than the two of them, older than the blood soaking into the cracks of the stone. 

he spoke only when the man finished his prayer, "göfug ósk," his gaze flit over the scene before him—the still-warm body, the man's red-streaked maw, the way the other wolf’s head tilted toward valhalla, caught between earth and the gods. "þeir munu hlusta."