Stone Circle your crown is burning gold and blood

Wardruna watches as the woman materializes as if from thin air, like a valkyrie responding to his summoning with her head and tail high: letting him know she is the reigning queen without needing to so much as utter the words. Wardruna gives her a quick once over with his good eye, noting the dark coloration of her pelage and the striking green of her irises from the distance as they stand out against her dark coloration. From an aesthetic view he deduces that she’s pretty and wonder if she harbors sharp thorns like all pretty things tend to do. It does not go unnoticed by Wardruna as her gaze lingers upon his injured eye and ( albeit not for the first time ) he wonders how it looks. Does it paint him as the berserker he was, a young legend whose saga is imprinted upon his flesh or does it showcase him as a liability? The northerner’s posture lowers in respect of her displayed power, in acceptance of her dominance over him. A beggar has no need for unwarranted and narcissistic pride. He’s reminded of his valuable lesson everyday of what arrogance and superiority, of the falsities of immortality granted by youth can do.

“I am Wardruna,” He speaks when he is addresses by her formally, verbally. His accent is a drawing lilt, rolling off of his tongue languidly. His gaze lowers as he thinks through the translations in his head, trying to figure out how to word what he seeks from her in the tongue they share: common for it is not his mother tongue and translations are not always smooth or perfect. “I …leitast…ah strive? to join you?” He frowns slightly as his sentence comes out as more of a question than it does an assured statement. He is sure that he seeks a pack but alas he is not sure that “strive” was the word he was looking for. It’s not the word he was necessarily looking for but hopes that despite that she will understand what he means regardless.