Stone Circle ᚨᚱᛁᛗᛁᛚᛁ

the sound reaches him first, low and rolling like a storm, before the scent curls behind it. old blood, sunburnt rot, wildflowers crushed beneath something feral. he stands where the wind splits the grass, a stone in the stream, eyes catching silver in the moonlight.

"hm." he sounds like the creak of old timber, hardly unkind but cut rough, jagged edged. he doesn’t bare teeth. not yet, at least—it is not like him to be the aggressor without purpose. there’s a crookedness to his grin, something amused, curious. pride and challenge meet in his stance, chin lifted just a touch.

he crooks his head, cocks an ear. measured, a man who's known too many fights to waste effort on puffed-up shows. a viking's folly, to be sure. he hoped this one would prove him wrong. "you wish fight?" a pause, a glint of something wolfish in his gaze, "—fight."