Stone Circle Bellow until out of breath

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ᚦ — the names strike like spears. draugr halts. turns slow, his broad form looming against the wind-stirred sky. he stares back down at the boy—no longer seeing a whelp.
his brow furrows deep, carved in disbelief and disdain.
eirik havardsson, he mutters the name like spillage of bile. purging him. he once knelt to stórólfr at þing. swore blood for blood.
a breath through gritted teeth. ljot eilifsson… weak-lunged goat. his line was broken when his bitch bore no sons. he snorts now. the steam of his breath clouding.
and svalfi… a pause, longer this time. the name is said lower. heavier. hranisson was never a man. only a dog in a jarl’s cloak. draugr’s head lifts, his voice rising now—still guttural, still grave, but sharpened with wrath.
so they each have sold their kin. warmed their cocks with silken whores and let the east cut through our bloodlines like wheat in summer. he growls then.
his chest rises, massive with fury barely restrained. he turns once more and begins the march back to the circle. come, áskell. we plot your vengeance.