Larksong Grotto what gods win, what you lose

the eye is torn free. blood splatters. the huntsman watches with cold, monotone expression; unflinching against the depravity of the soothsayer's ritual.
what he does not expect is the soft woman who appears. but it is not softness that conveys her; it is a coldness. prey is slumped from her shoulders, her back. the snow she draped in broken by blood. ulfric lets his gaze tear.
the gods want a piece from him now. he comes closer, lowering jaws over the neck of the fawn, and rips. the head is placed where aspa may take it, blood a permanent stain upon his browned snout.
ears pulling back against his thick crown as he hears the words of the shaman. looking then, to the white woman, trying to gauge her reaction to the harsh words.