Stone Circle Bellow until out of breath

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ᚦ — draugr watches the boy puff up, torn ears pinned, legs shaking, voice cracking with effort. it is not the strength that draws draugr’s attention—it is the refusal to fall. that stubborn flame licking at the edge of collapse. that old, familiar rage. a yellow-fanged smile cracks, slow, eerie, and spreading that does not reach sandstone gaze.
his paw lowers. he steps forward, ice drifting on black tide.
the boy demands an answer, bares fangs, threatens war he cannot win. strong, bold, like a true norseman. and the jarl cannot, will not, fault him for such bravery, such ignorance. he leans close enough that the boy can see the frostbite scarring the edge of his jaw. ég er draugr, strákur. leggðu öxi niður, hún mun ekki blása á móti mér. sonur stórólfs er velkominn í sal minn.
a grimness sets itself upon the jarl's brow. he moves past the boy, to turn with hefty, wide berth and begin to amble slowly back up the hill he had spent. in his silence, askell is expected to follow. a cloud hangs heavy upon norseman to hear of the grim fate that beheld his father. faðir þinn... hver hefur drepið dýrið? the words are grumbled, with both sorrow and a vile exasperation. disbelief, firm. he remembers much of their days together, recalling now within a dark mind.
rivals for years, with many attempts had to spill one another's life blood. quarreling over women, resources, and petty insult. until one day they set aside their blades and shared a winter fire. never to fight again.