Duskfire Glacier hel kallar. við svörum.

blackfell kneels in submission and in silence. in recognition. his muzzle presses to the stump, stained and scarred, carved by crownore teeth. blood pools beneath it, from the warm body of the raven. his fangs close around the inside of his foreleg and tear.
the wound is shallow, but it bleeds. it drips to the ground in slow rivulets, soaking into the cold beneath them like ink into parchment. the earth drinks. he takes the raven—limp, bled—and presses it down with his forepaws. he digs. claws scrape into the frost-hardened earth. the soil resists, but he does not stop. he drives deeper, until the bones of the bird are swallowed in a hollow beneath the dauðavættur.
then, only then, does he close the earth with his own paws.
he lifts his head, blood dripping from his muzzle, his wound still warm. crimson eyes burn as they find the carved rune of hel once more.
his breath rasps through the cold.
and then—
hel kallar. við svörum. their voices join in a monotone chant.