Honeyed Pasture ◊

the field whispered beneath him—grass bent, not broken, wet with the scent of rot and rain to come. geirmundr did not follow the woman for sport. he followed because she moved. because something about her, all fire and spit in a storm’s mouth, reminded him of younger things. harsher things.
his coat—shadowed and scar-lined—shifted with his steps, silent but felt, like the heavy presence of something older than the land. when she hissed in her strange tongue, he stopped. just once. ears twitching.
a flick.
a grunt.
his breath curled from between his teeth, thick with heat and salt. she smelled of frustration and road dust, of lightning not yet fallen. alive.
he said nothing. only moved again, until the wind could carry his scent close enough to be known.