Stone Circle no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin

@Drøugr — backdated to april 17

the stone circle pulses with a strength that grows with each passing day. draugr’s men—his warriors—were many things: disciplined, brutal, loyal. the jarl's claim had not been made lightly. and she had been impressed. the wight was truthful, and he showed promise.
she paces the perimeters now, eager for a moment away from the men, for there was a throbbing in her belly that curls with an upset hunger. the woman stubbornly rolls her shoulders, but the motion eases nothing. instincts burn even hotter beneath her skin. 
every exchange, every bark and clash of sparring males—muscle slamming onto muscle with teeth bared in mock war—raked an unwanted restlessness within her. a primal thrum that coiled hot and uninvited. 
it wasn’t tender. it wasn’t romantic. it was animal.
still, her tail lashed. her stance grew taut. and the scent of sweat and grime stirred that low-burning ache again, like iron struck too many times, ready to break.
she ached to be taken. to feel a grip stronger than her iron-clad restraint. but pride would not let it show in front of these men. her men, perhaps, one day. instead, she searches for blood upon her tongue, just to still the hum beneath her skin. 
she calls for drøugr.