Dawnlark Plains ᛁᛚᛚᛏᛁᛋᚾᚨ

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ᚦ — he is high upon his own arrogance and watches as she goes. a tail flagging high, a chin raising. a scoff, then a chuff as his parting goodbye.
but he also cannot stop but to speak again. ah, já. farðu! he is sick with northerner's crass humor. if he had a hand with four fingers and a thumb he would rest it upon the axe at his hip, slinging wolf-pelt over his shoulder. fixing her with the sneer of a petty norseman. mm. ég er viss um að maðurinn saknar þín. Ég mun gera þér greiða og óhreinka kvið þitt með mörgum norðanmönnum svo hann þrái þig ekki aftur! he bluffs now, but later? surely not. he fantasizes brief of taking her to bed atop steinhaugr.
it is pride that compels him not to pursue. he does not know yet he will want her, and want her fiercely. that would come with the hour. draugr can only grunt now and hike a foreleg, shooting a stream of stinking piss upon the ground she left behind.
sighing manfully, loud enough for her to hear.