Honeyed Pasture one false prayer wielding blasphemy

And then, it was over.

His grasp held for long moments afterward, even when the last throes and fits the coyote could make had ended. Only when the she-wolf released and stepped away did he loosen his grasp and do the same, though the ferocity of his gaze settled on her much in the same way he had looked upon the coyote. He took in the sight of her properly now, wondering what her next move would be and how he would have to respond.

“Veiðimaður,” he addressed her with a crude rumble. “Þetta er þitt,” he went on, gesturing to the coyote. She had made the killing blow and he would not chase her from it while it was still warm. In spite of the acrid wash coating them, he could smell others upon her. Multiple, at that. She was not some hunter of the wilds left to roam and survive like he or Stjornuati, and he knew it would have been unwise then to try and drive her off if others easily lurked nearby.

He could scavenge from the elk, to which he looked at then.

“Ég mun taka þennan.”

Just a smoothly, predatory, he looked to her again.

A fair trade, he thought.