Fox's Glade all teeth

flayed muscles of his throat flex, taut, instinct urging him to speak. jaws part, close again. a stiff nod and a gesture with his head toward the old stone circle, where his master lays waiting. tongue draws across bloodied lips, stained yellow teeth. the man before him is sturdy, weathered. a silent promise held in his rolling shoulders and confident stride. not here to fight for the circle, for the glade. not yet.

asvardr approaches slowly. circles him, but not like a predator. curious, scrutinizing. his scent is muddied with men and women alike. another pack close by, but it is no matter. if they come, drougr will strike them down like cattle. asvardr will wear their skin.

still the air between them carries something tense, something not yet broken. asvardr is calm, but he is no ally. his sword belongs to few, his heart to none. loyalty some forlorn thing, always just out of his reach.