King Elk Forest the reek of gods and men

he started at the ridge, where the tree line broke open and the snow gave way to bare rock, cold and flat beneath his paws.

and he pissed.

every few strides he marked again. bark. grass. thawed dirt where the sun touched. his tail curled high, muscles tight through the shoulders as he scraped hard against a few of the forest's thicker trunks.

dragging the length of his flank until fur tore loose in dark clumps and caught on the bark. his claws followed, gouging deep, peeling strips from the wood. by the time the jarl reached the center, the air reeked of him. thick and sharp, wolf and musk and the hot stink of piss and old blood.

satisfied, the berserkr huffs in the cold chill and tips his head back to howl. it is not pretty, melodic nor serene; instead, rough-bellied and warning. a beacon. perhaps, a flame that would bring the moths in.

the Allfather demanded followers. that meant warhall must thrive to appease Odin.