Stone Circle when the laurel grows heavy on your brow

ᚦ — the name karstark does not stir him. not with familiarity, no—but with interest, yes. draugr’s ears twitch at the word dragonking, and his head turns slowly toward the younger male. there is no flash of awe. only that deep, slow-brewing intensity, like a storm considering landfall.

never heard fjǫrðr called that. karstark. draugr rumbles with amusement. but i know men like your faðir. born with crown on head and silver in gut. it is an observation, not an insult—but dracarys is free to take it how he will. draugr will take measure of his reaction.

draugr turns now, stepping along a narrow path marked by claw and piss. frost still clings to the edges of rock and root, and the northman does not wait for the siren-prince to follow, only speaks as he walks.

you learn this land quick. it take your life ef you do not. cold cuts through bones here, and wolves from below send spies. south not yet strong. warhall must rise before winds shift.

a glance backward.

what do you bring from dragonblood? gold tongue? blade-skill? godsong?