King Elk Forest the reek of gods and men

she had been working the underbrush long before his scent rolled through it— thin paws sifting through frost-bitten herbs, gathering what little the early season offered: brittle yarrow, wintersweet bark, a tuft of hare’s fur for smoke rites. each bundle she tucked carefully beneath her chest, held close as if the old gods themselves had asked for them.

his mark hit her nose before his shadow did. violent. claiming. her spine tightened, ears folding low as she crouched instinctively, materials clutched beneath one foreleg. the howl that followed rattled her ribs— not beautiful, but powerful, a summons the gods would not ignore.

she stepped from the thicket anyway.

small, sootdark, a ghost beside the great draugr. she lowered herself at once, chest meeting earth, tail tucked. her eyes lifted only briefly— a flicker of gold toward her jarl— before she nosed her gathered herbs forward in offering.

a silent gesture: these are for the rites. for odin. for warhall.