Sunset Valley 'til the day that i die

hot breath steamed from her slackened jaw. she said nothing, at first. only studied him as one might a poisoned blade.
she could smell it on him in droves. this was a transaction masked in generosity. and a heated, warm want in his loins. sharp as flint and clumsily hidden. the white-crow took it as ridicule to the highest degree.
tongue passed once over her blood-wet teeth, though not in invitation. 
"þú býður allt." she muttered flatly, judgement cast, "en þú vilt nú þegar of mikið." her gaze dropped to her kill, then back to him, slow as the rise of a storm tide.
"maðurinn talar um húð og börn eins og verslun, eins og vöruskipti. en ég er enginn markaður. enga hóru að kaupa. skrúðganga fyrir litla menn." her voice was acid dragged through gravel. she spat those words, little men, with the disgust one might have for a rot-fat carcass bloated with flies.
"heldurðu að ég hafi ekki heyrt þessi orð áður? frá konungum, frá þrælum, frá heimskingjum?" she'd not enter this world again. tool for man to step on and rise above while she lay in the dirt. not when she slit herself open for one already.
if draugr wished to stay in her orbit, he'd do so as a cur on a leash—or not at all. 
she lurched forward like a jarl—claiming the space like it belonged to her. because it did. and it bent in her presence.
"þú kemur hingað með blóði og hungri og þorir að bjóða mér börn, þegar ég er þegar að veiða mína eigin."
"heldurðu að ég þurfi gjafir þínar, drøugr? þá misskilurðu mig fyrir eitthvað mjúkt." the wind pulled at her fur like a war-banner.
and then she felt it, the war-drums in her blood that ached for release like it did many winters ago. before she was matriarch. before she was wife. before she was mother.
"og ef fótur þinn fer nær þessu kjöti, mun ég opna hálsinn á þér og senda þig aftur til heljar með sorglegt loforð enn á tungunni."
her voice fell low, coiled and coarsened. there was no bluff nor bravado. only certainty. like an executioner’s axe already halfway through the air.
"viltu mig? sanna virði. boga." 
if he thought himself worthy to ask such of her, if he believed his presence had meaning, then he would earn it—not through words and pathetic promises to coddle home-wives. but through action.
bow to this woman who does not share your kin. to this woman you had not lain with. to this woman who lifted you, once.