Firefly Glen verast

saxon! sólhárr exclaimed, the word leaving him with a rumble of delighted surprise. i have not heard of your blood in some time.

his tail lifted with pride, the lines of his weathered face creasing in something warm. not a smile, not quite—but close. the kind of expression men wore when they recognized kin where there had once only been strangers.

you speak of oaths and gods as i do. that makes us not so different.

he stepped forward, the towering chief of forneskja with his pelt kissed by flame and snow. his massive frame cast long shadows in the late sun, and yet his posture was open, welcoming. your tongue is old. older than most. your bones remember the sea.

a pause, then a knowing flick of his ear, golden eyes flicking over the man’s wounds once more.

come. you will rest, and your strength will return beneath our roof. a seer will tend your flesh, and meat will find your belly. northmen take care of their own—even when they come from far shores.

then he turned, beginning the walk back toward the distant flickers of firelight through the trees.

walk with me, raedwulf seaxe. forneskja honors warriors who bleed and do not fall.