Deepwood Weald blood of the north

gusts of wind sung through towering pines, sharp against the damp earth beneath his paws. a darkening sky spoke of a storm yet to come, clouds of onyx black swallowing yawning blue. even in it's promise, he did not move. let the storm break against his back—he would revel in it, for he had weathered worse. 

his breath left him in slow, curling plumes, the rise and fall of his chest steady as the waves beyond him. there was something restless in him tonight, old and aching, but he swallowed it down like bitter mead. no time for sentiment. 

a sound—faint, but enough to break the silence—pulled his ear back. not wind. something more. someone more.

the goat had fallen clean. snapped its leg on the ridge and tumbled into the ravine below. by the time raedwulf found it, the thing was already too weak to stand.
a gift, then.
his paw rests firm atop its neck, pressing it to a broad slab of weather-worn stone nestled between the roots of a crooked pine. old blood has darkened the cracks there. this is not the first.
gehyraþ mē, ēagan ūplice, his voice rises.
nimath þās lāc, nā for hungor, ac for þanc. he sees no fear in its eyes—only the stillness of beasts who know their place in the old order. his jaws close around its throat, precise, and clean. blood comes in thick rivulets.
for lencten. for mæġð. for blōd.
blood pools at his feet, steaming faintly where it meets the cold rock. the scent is thick—metallic, sacred. when he speaks again, his voice is lower. steadier. a warrior’s breath made humble. bēoþ gemildē, ēagan ūplice, raedwulf's chest rises and falls. his flanks following suit, and power trembling within a kept body as he remains shadowing the bleeding sacrifice. blētsiāþ þā bearn þe iċ bringe forþ. his head lifts, eyes seeking the heavens above, ġehealdaþ hīe fram slǣge, fram hungre, fram wēste.
he lowers his head again—this time not to the kill, but to the stars. submission not to men. but to the gods.

for a moment, the only sound between them was the slow patter of blood on stone. sigvard had seen such rites before—had participated and done them himself, had felt the weight of the gods press into his bones like something half-remembered, half-forgotten.

he did not move closer, but he did not turn away. 

the scent of mingles with pine, a perfume of death and devotion. he let it settle in his lungs, let it stir something in the marrow of him. it was an old thing, this reverence—older than the two of them, older than the blood soaking into the cracks of the stone. 

he spoke only when the man finished his prayer, "göfug ósk," his gaze flit over the scene before him—the still-warm body, the man's red-streaked maw, the way the other wolf’s head tilted toward valhalla, caught between earth and the gods. "þeir munu hlusta."

the voice does not startle him.
raedwulf’s ears twitch, but he does not lift his head right away. blood still seeps around his toes, warm and thick, and the breath of gods still lingers in his chest like smoke. he keeps his eyes fixed on the sky a moment longer.
then his head turns, over a thick shoulder, seeking the source of the voice. a man stands at the edge of the grove. strong, hardy. a northman who does not speak raedwulf's tongue—and with that, he had begun to lose hope to encounter more of his people—but close enough that something stirs in recognition.
a low breath escapes him. not quite a laugh. not quite a sigh. þū wast. raedwulf's lips turn to a firm smile. he gestures, with a slow incline of his head, to the offering.
cuma. beþanc mid mē. words accompanied by the arc of a foreleg through the air, beckoning him forwards.

siggvard’s gaze sharpens, recognizing the familiar flicker of kinship, and he can hear him. listen.

he steps forward, his form as steady as the stone beneath their paws. the tension in the air seems to shift with his movement, like a slow release of a held breath.

 he inclines his head toward the offering with respect. góðan dag.