Stone Circle ᚨᚱᛁᛗᛁᛚᛁ

the pressure relents, and sigvard draws breath like a drowning man, like foaming waves returning to the ocean. his pride remains intact, if bruised and bloodied. he doesn’t rise quickly, no rush in him now that battle has passed—but his eyes follow draugr’s every step, sharp beneath the smear of blood along his brow. he hears the rumble of please in that first breath. a rare mercy, and one not wasted.

when draugr turns his back, sigvard watches. listens. the speech is not for show—it rings like prophecy.

his spine straightens at the words. reverence trickles slow down his ribs, something older than himself stirring. this place—this blood-soaked ground—has meaning now. a name. a beginning, beneath draugr's command. he rises slowly, wincing where muscle was torn and bone bruised, but stands tall all the same.

he follows, not out of obedience, but out of recognition. the war-chief had demanded dominion, and sigvard had given it—but not without cost. he stands just shy of the jarl's side, enough to show respect, not yet trust.

a grin curls faint at the edges of his lip, cracked and crooked. good place for a home. “ég heiti sigvard.” a beat. blood drips slowly from his shoulder, down his leg. “ég mun berjast með þér. Ef guðirnir leiða mig hingað, þá mun ég sjá hvað þeir vilja með því.”