Honeyed Pasture one false prayer wielding blasphemy

She said something else, but he didn’t hear it or her approach; he was far too taken up with just what to salvage from the elk. The best parts were obviously gone, but the bone was still there. The meat wouldn’t be as tender but it wasn’t that old of a kill. A day or two, maybe, not quite entirely set in to rot. He had eaten worse and so had his brother and any other number of wolves out in the world. But once the meat fully turned… the elk carcass would be useless.

He had been about to make another stride forward to begin his own work at it when the she-wolf turned up alongside of him with an introduction. He growled, this time more sternly and vocal than his standard fare of grumbling and griping about. Once again, he set his unsettling gaze on her, his hackles prickling in warning. She had done her part, she had her earnings, and she had a pack—all of those things made her undesirable.

Unless of course, her continued presence was a means to rally to him instead.

“Veiðimaður,” he intoned coarsely, “why stay? Following?”