Larksong Grotto deep down, you know that we are the same

Gjalla did not flinch. she should have—any sane creature would have when the witch rose up to touch her uninvited. but this woman was a witch; a servant to the same gods she revered, most likely. for that, gjalla met her gaze like a hammer meets stone. she allowed it not out of submission, but out of control. power like still water—deep and cold and dangerous.

the paw on her snout coaxed her chin down only slightly, sending the white cloud of her breath into the smaller woman's eye. a steady exhale, misting.

"hugur minn er ekki þinn til að snerta." she said, though she doubted it would snuff a witch's curiosity. "þú finnur lítið í því nema eyðileggingu."

a pause. she tilted her head, just a fraction. let her feel her breath against her paw now, warm as it was deadly. "do the gods hunger for madness, witch? or is this curiosity all your own?" the gleam behind her words was not mere humor. a warning, perhaps. tread lightly.