King Elk Forest the reek of gods and men

the dastardly jarl watches with wide, enjoying eyes as the woman—if you could even call her that!—scrapes forwards. inch by inch, raking her belly through snow and dead earth matter, until she is before him.
it is submissive, something along the lines. or just fearful. to draugr, he is only amused. he is no king! he is only a man! but he encourages her, nonetheless, with a yellowing smile and a blow of breath.
she gestures to herself, then to the earth below. norseman watches with a figurative hand on his axe, curiosity begotten him. you ground? he asks, then bellows his laughter; it is loud, booming, belligerent.
a trembling lift of her head and her mouth moves around a word. no, a name. draugr is silenced by such notion and lowers his head before her, peering with a single eye as his head tilts to the side. matsi. he repeats.
he hums, takes a step forwards, and drags his teeth across her patchy scruff. dragging her upwards forcefully to her paws, only dropping her when she stands.
hættið þessu bogadregnu rugli! jarl commands with a slam of his paw upon the snow, sending it smacking into her legs. ég er enginn suðurríkjaharðstjóri.