Fox's Glade all teeth

the glen stands unnaturally still. no birds sing. no wind moves through the trees. the air is damp, heavy with the scent of lichen and something else-- older, wilder. mist clings low to the ground, curling around gnarled roots and half-buried stones like some living thing.

and then he is there.

a shape carved from shadow, massive and imposing against the thick fog. black fur matted with bramble and dried blood. a broad chest rises and falls with steady, silent breath. crimson eyes catch the dim light, hold it like dying coals.

he stands just beyond the treeline, where trees bleed slowly into an open field. ears twitch. tail hangs still. rarely is he far from drøugr's side these days, hovering never more than a shout's distance.

but tonight he is alone, and he will serve his purpose.

Cole moved like stone given purpose—silent, solid, and deliberate through the thick mist curling low across the forest floor. The Glen had grown too quiet for comfort. No birdsong, no wind, just the weight of damp lichen and old, uneasy scent. It hung in the air like rot beneath snow.
This wasn’t nothing. He knew that much.
He wasn't far from Bearclaw Valley now, out on one of his longer scouts, checking the reaches that others didn’t. The silence wasn’t just stillness—it was a warning.
And then he saw it.
A shape, broad and unmoving, just beyond the veil of trees. Shadowy. Massive. A stranger—alone, as far as Cole could tell. Black-furred, streaked with bramble and blood gone brown. The stranger stood near the edge of the field, where the trees thinned, watching. Unbothered. Too calm for someone this deep in the valley’s outer paths.
Cole didn’t approach yet. He watched first, muscles drawn tight beneath thick fur, ears forward, tail low but stiff behind him. He’d seen enough violence to recognize it in posture before words ever came.

asvardr stands massive, motionless, unblinking.

mist slithers snakelike through his coarse coat, clings to blood-caked fur like a forlorn lover. one ear twitches at the stranger's approach, but he does not turn. does not need to. his presence fills the glade like a thunderclap, heavy and inevitable and damn near explosive. ruby eyes, sharp like glass, fix on the treeline with a silent weight.

when he finally moves, it is with the steady roll of muscle beneath hide. the skulk of a creature bred not for speed but for certainty. no growl. no sound. he cannot, for his throat bears the thick, matted remnant of some old wound, a puckered and savage tear where his voice once lived. all he has within him now is breath and body, and that is enough.

finally he turns and meets the man's gaze, and he does so with the dominance of one who bows only to his king. tail high, shoulders squared.

this land will have purpose now.

The weight of the man was obvious. Cole saw it in the way the mist clung to him like mourning. In the silence that didn’t feel like absence, but something waiting. Like a hammer mid-swing.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t square his shoulders like some young buck lookin’ for trouble, either. No, Cole was older. Quieter. Harder in the ways that counted. He let the silence settle, heavy as a snowfall, before his own paws crept forward through the dew-slick earth.
When the stranger turned, meeting him eye for eye, Cole didn’t shy. His head lifted just slightly. Tail flagged—not in challenge, but acknowledgment. He was no lackey, but he wasn’t lookin’ to stir shit without reason.
His voice came low, the kind of quiet you had to lean into if you wanted to catch it. Dusty, worn—like leather.
Yer claimin’ land ’round here?
He kept his stance easy, but firm. Not aggressive. Not retreatin’. Just there—like an old oak tree refusing to sway without cause. Watching. Waitin’. Wonderin’ just what kind of man stood before him in the fog.

flayed muscles of his throat flex, taut, instinct urging him to speak. jaws part, close again. a stiff nod and a gesture with his head toward the old stone circle, where his master lays waiting. tongue draws across bloodied lips, stained yellow teeth. the man before him is sturdy, weathered. a silent promise held in his rolling shoulders and confident stride. not here to fight for the circle, for the glade. not yet.

asvardr approaches slowly. circles him, but not like a predator. curious, scrutinizing. his scent is muddied with men and women alike. another pack close by, but it is no matter. if they come, drougr will strike them down like cattle. asvardr will wear their skin.

still the air between them carries something tense, something not yet broken. asvardr is calm, but he is no ally. his sword belongs to few, his heart to none. loyalty some forlorn thing, always just out of his reach.

Cole’s eyes cut past the stranger, toward the old stones rising like teeth from the earth. He knew what lay beneath their shadow—Kvarsheim. A place steeped in old oaths and older bones. His ears flicked once, sharp and silent.
Had they been raided?
He didn’t ask. Didn’t need to.
The silence held between them like a taut wire. Cole weighed the man—massive, blood-wet, carved from the same brutality that shaped the worst of men. His scent was muddled, but not aimless. A sword without a sheath. A threat, maybe. But not today.
Cole gritted his teeth, jaw tightening with the weight of a choice he wasn’t sure he’d be thanked for. But it was his to make. No war today. Not unless this bastard brought it to his door.
A slow breath through his nose. Then he turned, shoulder rolling beneath the old, ugly scars that told stories he never cared to repeat.
Welcome to the valley, he said, voice like a rusted gate swinging open, rough and low and final.
And without another word, Cole walked off into the mist.

exit Cole, sorry it was so short haha