Sunset Valley 'til the day that i die

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ᚦ — her voice slithers like smoke from a long-dead hearth, and it strikes like steel. the grin that once occupied his face has fled; no longer is it arrogance, but a more serious tone. he looks at her with smoldering, intense eyes—they no longer gleam with an inflated desire and arrogance.
breath upon his cheek, her icy eyes bearing upon his face. he turns to look at her, turning to face her; he will show her his strength. it blossoms beneath her gaze. he does not back down from her challenge, but he does not seek to command, to be above, neither.
his head dips low beside hers, voice a coarse rasp. ég vil ekki að mjúk kona brölti fyrir mönnum og óvinum. a knowing smile of stinking yellow teeth. ég myndi hafa konu blóðblauta, villta augu, hungraða í stríð. sem bræður mínir munu óttast eins og þeir óttast mig.
his gods chose him. but for her, he’d choose to burn.
his breath hitches. an idea. ears leaning forward, and now he is on the offense, circling her in turn. letting his brazen breath tickle the nape of her neck when he leans in. komdu með mér. ég mun sýna þér landið mitt. þú munt hitta mína menn. það verður holmgang, bara fyrir þig. Ég mun berjast við minn sterkasta mann og þú munt sjá hvers vegna ég er jarl. og ef þú vilt ekki vera, þá ferðu. enginn maður mun elta þig.