Disgusting. All of them. They all scurry around trying to bring meaning to their pathetic existence. Why do they try so hard? They should all just succumb to their fate and bow bent knee before their true master. A wicked sneer crosses his whiskered lips, yes... the will allow bow before him. If not willingly - which he prefers anyway - he will use force and drive them onto bent knee. He revels in the inky black, it conceals him from prying eye as he steps from bubbling surf. His dark eyes glance up and down the beach and the distant guttural roars of battle cut through the still air around him. Inky black skin vibrates with excitement and his dark eyes glint in the night. Ivar moves with stealth and the agility of a skilled warrior, this is not his first bloodbath nor will it ever be his last.
Fenrir hungers beneath his hide, he snarls and snaps begging to be unleashed.
"Patience, Fenir," he growls into the night air. He folds himself into the shadows and skulks through the night, searching with greedy eyes for his first victim. He yearns to hear their scream, to feel the life fade from their body, but he would wait patiently for the opportune moment.
-
Björn knows he should be home, protecting his family from the chaos of the War, but something draws him to the Forest.
The Norns? Guilt? He swallows against the growing lump, all of this was his fault. Regret? His glacial eyes glance up the beach. Maybe, it was all of the above? Maybe he was trying to make up for the chaos he has caused by aiding those he had vowed to fight against.
He steps through the frothing surf, his ears rotate beneath a thick mess of mane, straining to hear anything above the roar of the sea. A war cry breaks through the crash, his head immediately jerks and glacial search the inky night for the source of the sound. A pair of horses emerge from the sea, he watches as they immediately throw themselves into a headlong gallop. With a snort, his muscles uncoil and he follows after them. His legs pump beneath his body each stride bringing him closer the bloodshed and chaos, to death and heartache, and to the fate the
norns have laid out before him.
-
Ivar's dark eyes settle on a pair of mares, a wicked sneer crawls across his lips. He lurks within the thick foliage, waiting. It as if the
gods have presented these two before him, easy pickens. And it gets better as Cullen appears from within the shadows, his words fill the still night air with malice and an eerie tension.
Perfect, let's eat. Fenrir growls, his appetite becoming all consuming. Ivar jerks his head, yes... He steps from the shadows, his head low and his ears laced tightly against the muscles of his neck.
"I doubt their ready for us," he scoffs, his voice low with malice ripping from every syllable. He creeps forward, his dark eyes darting between the mares, hungrily sizing them up.
MMMMM, they look delicious, look at the supple hips and tantalizing curves," Fenrir growls.
Muscles quiver beneath his inky hide, impatiently waiting for the moment they would uncoil, waiting for the moment to attack. He craves to feel their flesh between his blunt teeth, to hear their cries from their lips, and to feel the tremble of the earth as their bodies hit the ground. It is time.
-
A bugle rips from between barred teeth as he bursts into the clearing, his glacial eyes narrow on the familiar face of Cullen... and Ivar? His gaze softens as it falls on his brother, despite all of the horrible atrocities his brother has done; he is still his brother. Proudly he moves to stand abreast with the pair of mares, he is careful to keep his distance from the mares, to insure that they do not mistake him as a foe. Whatever intentions, Cullen and Ivar have he knows they are nefarious. He raises his crown, and glacial eyes train on his brother who now stands opposite of himself.
"Hvað í fjandanum ertu að gera hér?" he growls to his brother in their native tongue.
-
Skítur, your brother is here, Fenrir growls just before Björn bursts through the thick foliage. Ivar's dark eyes settle on his brother as he comes to stand with the mares.
Figures, that idiot would pick the losing side... Fenrir scoffs. Ivar does not flinch nor move, even as his brother questions his being here.
"Hollusta bróðir, ekkert sem þú veist um!" he spits between barred teeth. Ivar's tail snaps across his haunches, every muscle in his body threatens to uncoil, unleashing the
úlfur kappi.
The tense seconds tick by, it as if the whole forest is holding its breath. Not a cricket chirps nor does the cool breeze ruffle the leaves on the branches, it is still.
A deep breath before the exhale.
Translation:
Hvað í fjandanum ertu að gera hér?: What the hell are you doing here?
Hollusta bróðir, ekkert sem þú veist um: Loyalty brother, nothing you know about