King Elk Forest the reek of gods and men

the northman watches behind cruel eyes as matsi reacts to his pestering.

lowering herself, flinching, cowering. bristling, hackles whipping to a stand. and it is with a large hand that he reaches and slaps her upon the back, jovial, welcoming, when he hears her tongue.

loksins, drougr huffs, gaze dropping to the collection of herbs betwixt her paws that she gathers nervously. to this, the jarl grins.

his smile is one of a thousand terrible swords.

þú talar tungumál norrænna manna!

how he had not recognized one of his own, he does not know! the jarl allows himself to take a seat, snow pluming around the way he collapses down with little care or grace. his matted, uncleansed fur reeking and sitting terribly at his ruff.

what er your nafn, little veslingur? he exhales. aye, what he'd do for a pint of mead, if such a concept existed within his canine mind.