King Elk Forest ≼ völuspá

the northman comes down upon them like a king descending from the hills with steel in his eyes, claim on his tongue.

snow cracking beneath his heft, each fall of a large paw muted by the winter elements that cloud thick in odin's forest. stepping from between thick boughs of trees, and a throaty noise rumbling like thick thunder from his throat.

he finds a small, unassuming woman and a formidable warrior. the former does not impress him, (though draugr like any man is capable of momentary lust and wonder) but the latter piques his interest; to him, drougr bellows a greeting.

haglél, beserkr. his voice tasting of omen and blood, something which precedes a battle or storm. þú walk the alfaðir's forest. those smoldering garnet eyes pass from pale man to dark soot woman cowering, and his lips curl in a yellowed manner.

bridgework thick, jagged, having seen plenty of battle and hunt. he would speak again, but he is silenced by the call of the king-elk—it is low and distant, but certain—and the faithful bows his head in revere. hlustaðu. draugr insists.

i vilja be claiming this jörð. his head lifts, to settle those fiery eyes upon both. shoulders squaring and rolling with paws shifting, a would be sling of hand across the axe at his side.

stay. your blóði call Odin.