Larksong Grotto echoes of the past

Strength. Yes...strength was a mighty power, a weapon wielded by the living. But even the greatest of strength bowed to the force of inevitable death. In the end, might had no room to speak against the darkness of fate. That was the belief that she came to as a former mortician-- the gatekeeper of fallen warriors, the speaker to souls.
Blessun...Blessun... it needed to be on her side.
Yesfir allowed the silence to stretch thin and long before she spoke at last.
"...Rangt mælir þú."
The words slipped beneath the gentle warmth of her breath. Quiet descended once more. However...she would move by the norseman's command.
The pale woman pushed herself onto all fours, an almost uncanny fluidity present in every movement. Silent, airy. Her gaze refused to meet the sharpness of the brute's; instead, it fixated upon the shadow of his chest's muscle. It might have been mistaken for submission...if not for the cold detachment within the glint of her eye. A reservation that didn't quite fit the label of timid. 
"Kuldi...mun mik eigi sigra," Yesfir added, her tone steady as the fall of snow. Though numbness coiled through her limbs, her fangs closed around the skull's antlers-- a stubborn final attempt to cling to it. It dragged slowly through the snow. Perhaps...it would be too heavy to tow.