Duskfire Glacier When gods forgive

i am not the kind of northman @Skorpa claims to be, faust grunted, his voice a low thrum, a rockslide too slow to stop.
she weaved around him like a shadow in snow, her words biting at the edges of his patience. he did not follow her with his eyes—he didn’t need to. he’d been stalked before. by gods, ghosts, women. warriors.
i don’t run, he added. i plan to take this conflict head on. whether it’s blood or ice waiting—so be it.
his shoulders lifted in a long, drawn breath that steamed from his nostrils like smoke from a dying fire. her words lingered like old wounds reopened.
don’t fault him, he said after a beat, quieter, though no softer. his wife is pregnant.
there was a flicker of something deeper in his voice—buried beneath the warstone and frost. something near to regret. or respect. he didn't know anymore.
he’s protecting what’s his. that’s not weakness.
then, lower: but i am not him.
he let that hang between them, carved into the cold. his eyes narrowed on her at last, steady and sharp. so speak, aspa. if the gods sent you, say what they want.

tag for mention