Fox's Glade all teeth

the glen stands unnaturally still. no birds sing. no wind moves through the trees. the air is damp, heavy with the scent of lichen and something else-- older, wilder. mist clings low to the ground, curling around gnarled roots and half-buried stones like some living thing.

and then he is there.

a shape carved from shadow, massive and imposing against the thick fog. black fur matted with bramble and dried blood. a broad chest rises and falls with steady, silent breath. crimson eyes catch the dim light, hold it like dying coals.

he stands just beyond the treeline, where trees bleed slowly into an open field. ears twitch. tail hangs still. rarely is he far from drøugr's side these days, hovering never more than a shout's distance.

but tonight he is alone, and he will serve his purpose.