Firefly Glen verast

he follows the red man without question now, each step sure-footed despite the throb in his limb. blood still trails down his shoulder, thick and drying, but he does not flinch from it. there is no shame in wounds. only proof.
sólhárr’s back is broad ahead of him, pelt gilded by the dipping sun, and raedwulf watches him with a warrior’s eye. how he walks. how the wind does not move him. a chieftain in truth, not just in name.
his ears flick at the words spoken again, though they come fast and unfollowable. he catches only fragments—roof, gods, honor. but he hears what matters. he hears welcome. and more than that, he feels it.
he grunts softly, a sound of approval. ġe, þū spricst mid rihte! there is pride now in raedwulf's voice. it is heartening, strong, to be welcomed by another northerner! and they had shared blood together already. it was a great, warmful omen for what may yet come.

fade!