~ a withered heart, fluent in death
His remain beneath his silvery mane as his eyes narrow menacingly at the woman, her words foreign to his ears. Was she cursing him? How dare she?! He raises his thick head higher on his burly neck as he strides closer to her. She will pay for knocking him off of his feet, he stops just out of striking distance. His glacial eyes pierce hers. He could take her life, here and now. And there would be no protest from him.
"Af hverju rakst þú á mig?" his brow furrows. Where in the hell did he end up?
As the tense seconds pass, he begins to understand that she could of attacked him after their run in, but she has yet to do it. He lowers his head and his eyes soften momentarily, she is no enemy.
"Ég er Sköll," he introduces himself with a slight lift of his skull and a nod.
Glacial eyes slip to her bleeding and scuffed shoulder. Did that happen when they collided? As the adrenaline begins to leave his body he can feel a strange feeling of guilt spread across his chest. Had that happened when they collided? It had not been on purpose, this damned place and the pair of battling horses on the beach had sent him hurtling through the forest. He dares to close the distance between them, his eyes focus on the crimson blood that stains her gilded coat.
"Fyrirgefðu," he mutters, his voice low and his accent thick. He steps back, his glacial eyes search hers. As he begins to put the pieces of this strange place together. She does not understand his words and he can not understand hers... He finds himself in a strange land with no way to communicate.
Translation:
Af hverju rakst þú á mig?: Why did you hit me?
Ég er Sköll: I am Sköll
Fyrirgefðu,: Im sorry.