Sunset Valley 'til the day that i die

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ᚦ — it is... remarkable.
the transformation from cool-blooded huntress to shieldmaiden in the flesh. a flareup of strength that rises from gut to throat like bile, in the riveting exit of a snarl. he watches with smoldering eyes. he feels breath upon his snout that is hissed from between her teeth.
the wight feels the palpitating of her fury as it comes in waves and rolls over him, heatwave that fries the very fur from his hide and leaves him a shivering pup. yes! drøugr cannot stop the growl that lurches to life in his own throat, his gut a concoction of emotions she has produced in him.
desire, battlewrath, awe. they are all present. each word is a lash upon his skin that he is unyielding beneath, taking once, twice, thrice. all gritted teeth and lowering of his own hackles, the grin upon his scarred maw only splitting more and more until it reaches sandstone gaze.
she is putrid. she is glorious.
the promise of deliverance to hel is one he would beg for each night lain with this woman. when she demands a bow, he does not move for several seconds. only drawing out a cold, amused laughter; but it is not mockery it stems from, but the desire for her that she only ebbs harsher with each cruel word.
his head lowers to his chest. wiry chin brushing matted neck fur with blood, eyes meeting the carcass she proclaims from. þú ert meira en kona! words coming in bellowing laughter that he cannot control, and that he does not fear being smited for. does she think him a monster?
draugr commands no honor. he is berserkr, through and through. his blood is that of the north and he bleeds black with fury, ode to the gods he swears and hears in his heart. in his northern mind and northern soul. his wrath is true and he will go to valhalla and feast among the fiercest of the northblood. but what is that life lived, if not having loved and been loved? he desired more than just conquest. he desired to leave a legacy, as any northman did. to fill his hearth with sons who would spill in his name. to share bed with a woman he can only live each day to be worthy of.
ég er ekki eins og eiginmaður suðurríkjanna. ég er norðanmaður. orð mitt er stál sem öx mín. ég segi að þú munt hafa, þú munt hafa. looking now up to her. tentatively, rising once more to his height—he towers above her, but it is not his want to lord above her. mín eina þrá, lunarre: að fylla langhúsið mitt af sonum, dætrum og jarlskonu. að fylla kviðinn af mjöð og villibráð. að bleyta öxi mína með blóði þeirra sem ég sigra. að vita hvenær ég fer til Valhallar, ég hef ekki sóað lífsblessun Óðins. þú munt segja mér að þú viljir ekki það sama? dóttir norðursins? his speech ending with a knowing grin, as he leers closer, and then moves away from her corpse as she threatened. letting her view upon his side, to see his worth. the strength he carries, the health upon his weight. the scars that decorate leg, body, and face. proof of valor, of battles won and tested. a face not handsome and perfect but weather wrought and blood-smited.
seeing through her with smoldering amber gaze. þú munt láta mig elta, kona. heyrðu mig þá: það er ekkert stríð, ég mun ekki berjast til að gera þig að konu warhalls jarls.