Larksong Grotto what gods win, what you lose

aspa’s request had been strange—at the same time, ulfric felt remiss to deny her of much anything. a young stag, she said—something with antlers. something with spirit.
so ulfric tracks it at dawn. the woods are silent, they are still—there is only his breath, his steps, and the pulse of the gods somewhere in the cold. the stag had run, limping—wounded by something else before him. chosen by the gods. and it is not a long hunt. the kill is clean, and with great precision, it is swift.
he carries it across his back where blood mats his fur, streaks his legs. the antlers, though not grand, rise like pale branches—enough, he thinks, for her bloody work.
when he arrives, it is on stalwart legs, that fall in muted thuds; his approach is quiet, but the soothsayer very well might have already knew he was there.