~ a withered heart, fluent in death
The air is still and thick with the tension that lingers between them. His glacial eyes still full of suspicion but he can feel it begin to dissipate from his body. He knows nothing of this woman, nor of the land that the sea has delivered him to. His ears rotate uncertainly beneath locks of silver as she speaks once again. Her first words foreign and confusing to his ears, but the second...
I am Zjeena. He tilts his thick head. She is Zjeena. Ahhh... A fitting name for a woman of the north. A woman who would easily defend herself from raids and assaults.
His glacial eyes soften momentarily. Until they fall on her bruised and bleeding shoulder. He had done this to her. He shifts his weight beneath his body as he drops his glacial stare and tries to work the words together to apologize to the woman wrapped in gold.
"Zje....ee...na," he trips and stumbles over her name, but finally the syllables fall from his dark lips. He reaches his dark muzzle closer to the blood that dribbles from her scraped shoulder, his brow furrowed in concern and remorse.
He swivels his thick head in the direction of the distant guttural cries. He is no fool and understands that he has set hoof on a land split in turmoil. It seems
The Norns have an interesting sense of humor these days. His thick fuzzy ears flick within his damp silver mane, it is tangled and leaves cling to the knots. He turns his icy gaze to his companion.
"Stríđ Zjee..na?" he asks with a jerk of his head in the direction of the guttural cries. He can feel the tension return to his shoulders. He has been through many battles and the proof litters itself across his spotted hide.
Translation:
Stríđ: war