King Elk Forest ᚷRIÐUNGAR

the man presses into her space, drawing in her scent as she draws his—rot clings to him. he reeks of old meat and wet earth, something left too long beneath the snow. her nostrils flare once—displeased—but she does not comment.

she follows when he turns. the trail bears the marks of his claim, a wide repeated passage. used. that much, at least, is true. when he speaks, it is with ardency—with love for his people, love for her gods.

seldom does haelwyn indulge passion—it clouds judgment, dulls the blade—but devotion spoken plainly and without apology is a rare exception.

the glen opens before them, light breaking through the canopy in fractured pieces. stone rises where it has been placed by paw, worn smooth by weather and touch alike. Her gaze moves slowly, counting, noting. Altars and markers, offerings long since taken by time.

the man does not stop talking, and her scowl tightens at his implication. odin in flesh. her brow dips, but the thought needles at her. it is not unheard of that he walks unseen among his people—but it he truly here? "hvar er hann nú?"