King Elk Forest ᚷRIÐUNGAR

a woman not so easily impressed is to his favor.

he ceases his theatrics short thereafter her response, though lumbers forwards. closer to her, chin lifting so he may scent upon her. there is a rumble in response, thick and throaty, trapped in his chest.

to her words, he meets her gaze and grins. to hear they share a native tongue and to know she is a woman of the norse culture. sharing in his beliefs, surely. sharing in his life, maybe. he barks, warhall er mín krafa.

he lumbers past her but does not make to touch her. shoulders pass shoulders, hips pass shoulder, then he turns his head over his own to look upon her. beckon her to follow, along one of many trails he has carved out through the woodland.

en þetta land tilheyrir alföðurnum. oðinn gengur á meðal okkar. hinn mikli hirtur sem ásækir þennan skóg. hann er hann, komdu til jarðar. warhall heiðrar hann. við erum stríðsmenn hans, fólk hans.

he walks from the thick, gnarled trail and into an open glen. fragments of sun shining down through canopies of tree. where he has dug out a place of communion for the people of warhall, where he has raised monuments for their gods. Þetta er hjarta fólks míns.