King Elk Forest ᚷRIÐUNGAR

the loss of home tastes as dandelion on her tongue. it has been a long time coming, surely, but time does not erase the jagged points of a serrated blade as it carves open her chest.

she does not know when her paws had begun to ache, but she figures from the dullness that is recent. the cold here does not bite as it does in kalfskinn—a great pity—but at least the snow lingers. it is stale and stained, but it is there. she had hoped that, at the very least, new land would not mean giving up all of her home. dead wrong, she was—reality is a cruel thing. not even a dusting of snow. it twists her snout ugly, white fur wrinkling at the nose.

she walks anyway—walks and walks and walks until she is faced with another figure, a man. burly black beast, a scar up his mouth. it is his territory she edges along, she realizes, and her posture tenses reflexively. defensive, thinking—haelwyn of úrsova would not shy from conflict, should he seek a fight.