Barrow Fields The interesting thing

Valmua would have been right in her assumption—Solpallur would in fact, much rather watch her struggle than come to her aid. And he did such for a spell, first drawn in by the familiar fire-tongue in her mouth with surprise only to watch his brother go down by her well-timed actions. That had been the most entertaining to him, though her appearance held him still out of interest as well. After all this time, he had not quite expected her to show up, and could not recall the last time that he had seen her. The days and stories of their travels were long and winding, much of which had been lost to him in favor of focus on other things. Namely, their survival.

But so far, they had thrived beneath the canopies where now were more decked out with ravens than leaves in his estimation. The rocky slopes and ravines beyond and below them had been a source of replenishment that seemed to favor them and while their band rested and grew here and there, he felt the hringja reach him all the same. It may have been time to move on, but he was not quite up to par himself.

Too many tangles as of late, too many trivial, superficial marks that slowed him.

But not enough to charge from where he lurked towards Valmua.

He intended to teach her a lesson as he happened upon her beneath Stjornuati, her disgraceful and uncoordinated thrashings giving him reason to grab her scruff and pull her along as harshly as their lineage dictated. Something they had always done to one another or any other combination, it was helping just as much as it was punishment for the error of her decisions. She was trapped, exposed, and he was teacher as much as he was punisher.