Stone Circle sit with you in the trenches

Yeees

Àskell stood on all fours. He had survived, after all. In the end, exhaustion had not laid him low. He moved through the camp, silent and watchful, observing its figures from afar. Drøugr had already gathered a handful of men—formidable warriors of the North—and Àskell did not feel out of place among them.

Then there was the woman. Clad in silver, her face impassive, striking not by virtue of her size or stature, but by something more elusive—her aura alone was enough. Was she the one Drøugr had spoken of?

Hesitant—limping, in truth—Àskell had drawn closer, though he kept a cautious distance. The only women he had ever truly known were his sisters, who had watched him grow before vanishing one by one, wedded off to forge alliances with distant warlords. He remained a young man, timid still—undaunted by the battlefield, but confounded by women. They were far more complex than war.

He watched as she arranged her hut with deliberate care, adorning it with various herbs. Were these the signs of ritual? Or merely the refined touch of a woman? Àskell remembered that one of his sisters had loved beautiful things; she had once gifted him trinkets to weave into his fur—trinkets he no longer wore, and now, quietly mourned.

He no longer resembled the boy he had once been in those gentler days. A single battle had been enough to shatter him. His body was broken, aching—but like the phoenix, he would rise again. In time, once the wounds had closed, he would be reborn—a warrior tempered by fire.