Ravensblood Forest black hole in the sky

With his black, leathery nose poised towards the ground, Draugur began his search with something of a vein hope. Though there were errant trails of wolves having traversed back and forth through this forest there did not linger a scent of pack, or even the fading one. Finding caches here would, he had little doubt as he wound deeper and deeper into the heart of the darkening forest, be difficult if null and void. It was unlikely that any wolf would let a cache here unless they were in the habit of making random caches through the land — which when it came to raiders such as himself there would be literally nothing left of it until the time that they returned. Smaller carnivores might have thought to make caches but even then Draugur was not overly hopeful. Fate was not often so kind and generous to those who chose the life of a scavenger and though he had been on this mission from the Cove for years Draugur knew all too well how kind Fate could be.

Fate had brought with her the death of his elder brother at the jaws of his own eldest son.

Fate kept Draugur from returning, his mission never changing, simply he was unable to report back his progresses. There was little doubt that the story of the Sigurvegarinn did not proceed him, but that was not a chance that Draugur was willing to take; and anyway what was there to return to? A smug nephew who had worn the blood of Eitri like a crown? Nothing that truly appealed to Draugur in any sort of manner, though he could not claim that he was any different. He usurped a couple of Alphas and claimed their packs and lands, fighting how only he knew how to fight: until the death.

Mercy was not a word that lingered in the Northman's vocabulary.

There was a chuff to announce a presence, though Draugur had heard the footfalls of the other, awkward and heavy as they were. Pallid ear rotated back, and slowly, the silver eyed wraith peered at the child with chilling indifference. Silently, the wraith studied the boy. He was big, nearing, if not at his full height, about average sized for these southern wolves if he was being biased (which he was), but he was a child, his adolescence still very evident still to Draugur. Lips parted and spilling forth was a deep voice accented by the Scandinavian accent that he bore, adding to the words of his native tongue, “Þú ættir ekki að vera frá heimili, barn”. Not that it concerned Draugur much. He cared nothing for the child's life, anymore than he cared for anyone else's other than his own.