Larksong Grotto echoes of the past

Anundr halted, the sound of her words in the old tongue made his ears twitch. He did not expect to find a woman of the north in this hidden place, especially not one who looked like she was made of snow.
He stared at her, his golden gaze narrowing as he watched her protect the skull. He felt a deep confusion. To him, the hunt was about the strength of the jaw and the weight of the body, not words spoken to a dead beast. He wondered if her mind was broken or if the Æsir were playing a trick on him by placing a madwoman in his path.
The northman did not move closer after her warning, letting the scent of his matted coat and dried blood fill the space between them. „Blessun?” he grunted. The word was a low rumble. „Bein gefa ekki mat. Styrkur gefur mat.” Anundr believed in the Old Gods, but did not ask them for meat or pray for a hunt. He thought the gods only watched to see if a man was strong enough to kill. He pointed his blunt chin at the yellowed skull in her lap. To him, the bone was just a piece of waste from a dead meal.
The northman huffed, forcing thick steam from his nostrils and mouth. He stood still and watched her, but the lack of movement allowed the cold to seep through his matted fur and into his skin. He felt his muscles begin to stiffen. He knew that standing still in the snow was a way to die, and he did not like the way his own heat was leaving him.
„Hreyfðu þig,” he commanded, gesturing with a heavy, blood-stained paw toward the path.