The eyes that had pierced the girls skull are pale, glowing from within the cavern of a man’s torso, like eyes peering out from the hollow. That which has snared Moder’s interest will not spy the young goddess amongst the trees — in much the same way as the rabbit does not, and then to its doom. A cloven hoof at least thrice the size of that meagre coney saves the girl her trouble, long after her dinner has fled from her sight. That thud resembles a falling tree that one can’t see, but rather feel its impact upon the gelid earth. Through tall tree trunks, the shadows appear at play. Pallid morning light burgeons that dance, elongating shards of darkness that may or may not belong in the place they’ve begun to inhabit.
A frozen fog hangs by the ground, encircling Loki’s feet. He does not feel the weight of it, nor its bite — perhaps that is the only blessing granted to he who always feels somewhat welcomed by the dead and rotting, now. Jötunheimr’s king is the only one who makes himself known, once he has been misnamed. He brings with him a cold far more persevering than the one she’s come to know, and does think to save her the vicious cut of another winter.
Chaos envelops the grove within which they find themselves. She’ll begrudge him for how all manner of critters swiftly flee from that tempestuous swathe, which swiftly grows teeth. She is spared the gnawing sensation, though only as he wills it. He watches her and glimpses waves; and how fluid fills the lungs. Perhaps that, and the child hidden amongst the trees, has softened his outer edges some.
Moder, too, appears nigh-shy to him. And he does not draw her from her hiding place, where she plucks her earlier catch from the snow, headless, but otherwise whole. “ No games here, ” He draws attention through the trees, and though the ostensible promise is frangible at best. Canting his head knocks forth his chin, toward her. “ I’m not one for concealing myself entirely. ” Humour oft is tied to his tongue, as though he finds jest where others never can, no matter circumstance. Hers is bleak, that much he feels — as much as any soul abandoned here, maybe moreso.
“ You lack a catch. ” His observation is meant to be guiding. A headless rabbit still sits between the human hangs that frame Moder’s shadow-dwelt face. She has yet, however, to reveal the prize. “ Ironically the beasts here appear lively. ”
𝙸𝚃 𝙸𝚂 𝙷𝙴𝙻 𝙵𝙾𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙳 𝙱𝚈 𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙷𝙰𝙳𝙳𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝚂𝙷𝙴 𝙽𝙾𝚆 𝚁𝙴𝚂𝙸𝙳𝙴𝚂, 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝙽𝙾 𝙼𝙰𝙽 𝙲𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝙼𝙰𝙺𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙴 𝙰 𝙷𝙾𝙼𝙴! she cannot make it out entirely, nor would she try when cannot even will her eyes to do so. her cold, pink mouth agape and out of breath, lungs grasping for a single gulp of air that will allow the girl to scream. she can’t. and if she did, no one would come to help her anyway. and the man, born perhaps from the remains on domaldi's altar. IT IS HELL IN THOSE EYES. they hold an emotion she has never seen before. something she dares not try to name. the girl’s eyes dart between the trees, searching for monsters, for teeth within swollen flesh, and the metal metal trap is left forgotten and NARROWLY AVOIDED by the circling of her feet. will she be swallowed by the fog?
“ good. i ... i don’t like games. ”
it must be courage... perhaps a touch of stupidity, sting her trembling heart, now thronged with the stuttering anticipation of the pain of being eaten. adrenaline drowns her. an arrow is against the drawstring before even astrid can stop the burning in her arm. a thousand stories from her father’s lips prepared her for the fiends. crunching bones and snapping organs would soon be the medley that her stinking innards would play. the tattered rope groans between her fingers, and her distant, glossy eyes fight to contain the wetness of her fear. she will not look weak to any man nor beast!
lo, the woman is still a child. there is innocence beneath the swathe of quaking fear, and she can feel the water closing around her throat, surging through her lungs. astrid’s fingers slip, the wooden bow shakes and the arrow sways off-center, realigned only to sway off again.
“ i’m starving. i haven’t eaten in days, none of us have. ” astrid’s voice shakes with the weight of winter’s touch and her surmounting fear. in her head she replays the sound. can she pass for freezing cold? no. there are more important things to worry about that appearing weak before a foe. SHE WON’T BE FOOD FOR THAT BEAST BENEATH THE ROOTS!
“ i just want to hunt. ” her lungs burn. she still forgets to breathe. her heart tells her to pray, but to who? THE GODS ARE DEAD. “ please. ”