Stone Circle when the laurel grows heavy on your brow

ᚦ — the name is strange. not from the north. not one he’d heard spoken in the meadhalls or sung over blooded fields. but it rolls off the stranger’s tongue like it’s meant to carry fire.
draugr eyes him closely.
torn ears flick, and northman steps closer, carrying great weight upon thundering, muted steps. this er warhall.
you near my land. my steinn. my folk.
his eyes narrow. you come for what?