Stone Circle [m] soul disavowed

a dense figure breaches the treeline, swathed in shadow. each step a dull thud, a calculated action. he has traveled far from the fools who cast him out, in search of new beginning. and here, perhaps, he will find it.

and there it is, alone at the clearing's center, rigid. a man, alone, head raised in challenge.

the mountain speaks not a word, beady eyes unblinking. at long last the deadly wound at his jugular has begun to scab over, and he is loath to reopen it so soon. not if it can be avoided. but he will not submit like a coward, either. and so he stands his ground, posture tense but not unfriendly, and he waits.

---

ᚦ — he had scented the approach the moment paws were crossed over his markers. the wind, the gods, carried the scent to him.
a mixture of piss and carrion. draugr flagged the brute immediate as a threat and waited, watching with sandstone eyes for the wolf.
he appears, cloaked in confidence that does not belong to him. the northman does not leave the center of his pillars yet, cloaked in dusk’s bleeding colors. a snarl on his tongue.
paws pass the pillars before him and it is immediate that he is assailed by the wight. shoulders grappling, teeth searching for possession. a warsong on the melodies of his snarl that rings into the heavens.

he does not growl so much as choke, the effort of which pains him greatly. perhaps, were he in good health, the fight would have been closer to even. but he is weak from loss of blood, weaker still from lack of food and drink.

still something primal stirs in him, his will to live not yet extinguished.

teeth sink into his neck, paws roughly grappling his sides, and it becomes clear then that this man seeks not to kill, but to claim. to own in the way that only one man can own another. the larger man's tail brushes his hip, and asvardr curls his lip. he is not some common whore, to be taken as this man wishes.

jaws part in silent warning, tongue flicking over teeth before he is falling beneath, neck twisting, jagged teeth snapping at the thick fur protecting the viking's throat.

they will fight. perhaps he will die here. but he will not die a coward.

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ᚦ — the flesh beneath him resists. he will quell such behavior; water to flame.
the jaws miss his throat but rake across his chest, leaving behind burning that draugr desires.
draugr grunts, twisting with the impact, and his paw slams into the side of asvardr’s neck, pressing him down with weight honed by war and winter.
he snarls low to ear, loud enough to quake in bone. lútu. a breathing command. he knows the first attempt will not be receptive.
when teeth flash next, draugr responds with further violence. tail flagging now, banner of war, and letting himself roll with each blow. shoving the hound back on hind legs, forelegs grappling mid air once, then powering above. punishing the rogue downwards and then standing above him, immune to snapping of teeth upon his own legs and chest as he attempts to wrestle his own forelegs around the bastard’s hips.
if he must play dirty, he will.

jaws snap open and closed, failed attempts to speak, but all efforts stop short as a crooked muzzle brushes the wound upon his neck. teeth, too, seeking to keep their hold, and asvardr knows then that he is beaten. he will die if he resists, and so he lowers his head solemnly with teeth still bared- simple discomfort now rather than aggression outright. the larger man may do as he pleases, so long as the wound at his throat remains untouched.

a pleased sigh from above him as the bastard's weight settles, forelegs tightening their grip, and asvardr's tail shifts to wrap around one leg, exposing his flank. and from the corner of his eye he watches, expression unreadable.

---

ᚦ — man beneath him gives in once draugr took hold of the wound that had barely begun to stitch together across the throat. by lack of noises made, his silence was punishing. the grizzled wound spoke for him.
his silence now would be rewarded. draugr takes hold, teeth gnashing against dark scruff at the nape of neck and settles hips over his. grappling shoulders with thick forelegs meant to subdue.
the hound would be going nowhere, not until the jarl was finished with him. beginning now the rough ticking of hips against exposed flesh, tongue lolling, manful grunts and growls to be devoured by the night time.
eyes closing to convince himself the man beneath was a thin-bodied woman subject to his pleasures; not a grizzled bastard who draugr must dominate in any means.

fade!