Reginleif’s dreams were much like her life; glorious. There was precious little she wanted to achieve that she hadn’t already and few things she wanted that she didn’t already have – save for the obvious; a living child of her own blood. Pained as she was by each of the births of her dead children, she accepted the inevitability of it and did not dwell on her losses. Even in her dreams, her only children were the two she had stolen, though she still told herself that she had merely stolen Brynhildr back from Ragnfridr – that there was not the body of real child rotting in the ground somewhere.
When the palomino spoke, Reginleif seethed on the inside, her eyes briefly focusing intently on the stallion’s jugular as thoughts of how she’d like to rip it clear of his flesh swarmed her. The smug grin did not leave her lips, however, even if her words were perhaps a touch more icy and a little less wry than she had intended, “In the flesh.”. Perhaps she imagined it then, but there was movement in her womb, as if her growing child disagreed with the sentiment – or at the very least acknowledged it. “Oh no, the honour is all mine” she sneered, "To see the famed Fenrir in all his glory after all this time. Rumour had it you'd been killed, but this is much better. Failure suits you oh so well.” Why, it’d knocked the bad mood right out of her.
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