Larksong Grotto what gods win, what you lose

ulfric remains still.
his breath quiet, barely misting the thick air as madness and divinity converge in the small, stifling hut. blood stains the floor in splatters and pools; the walls seem to hum with some unseen weight, thick with rot and prophecy.
he does not move. but his eyes—his eyes follow everything.
when aspa speaks, he does not know why, but he obeys. perhaps compelled by the suffocating intensity of the happenings around him, filling his chest with a heaviness.
the woman cries for her unborn. ulfric says nothing fore there is nothing for a man to say in this moment.
the fawn’s skull is taken, twisted grotesquely. the warrior-huntsman feels it too—a sorrow he will not name. his blue eyes fall to the mother again.
taking now a powerful breath as if he is a mighty stag galloping through his grotto forest.