Barrow Fields The interesting thing

Valmua writhed in his grasp, squealing a churlish note as Stjornuati stirred. Solpallur did not drag her far, not wishing to do any more damage to her scruff than necessity to get his point across of her error. It was a firm grip, bordering a threat to tear the skin if he hauled her too long; when he felt he had worried the skin enough he had let go, his attention flitting to his brother as he nursed his own pains.

“Hræðilegt,” he rumbled, though he may as well have said that they were both pathetic. His gaze went back to his sister then, sharp and attentive—he would not be caught as unaware as he perceived his brother to have been. Not that he believed she would try, because he thought certain she would though chances were she knew better to pull another stunt so quickly.

“Afhverju gerir þú? Hvað ef einhver annar hefði komið með?” Ground out words with a growl from a fluid, fluent tongue; he did not believe them to be safe there, not with the wolves that lurked with naught much more than stone and elevation between them. They had already had encounters with them and ever the recluse of his own design, Solpallur did not wish to invite any more trouble than had been accrued.