axe time, sword time

The air is cold, cutting through her fur. Bylgja raises her head and breathes it in. She has travelled for some time, picking her way across the landscape of this strange place, but here-- where ragged stone rips from the ground like teeth, Bylgja feels keen and at home. Her head tilts back; there is a border, here. She can smell it.

The wolf steps forward. One step. Another. Her head stays tilted back; she lingers along the border, not wanting to cross. That, she knows, is a trespass.

Her jaws part.

Bylgja roars. It starts guttural, at least, like a roar -- and then it tilts up, fiercely to become something sharper and bolder. The call rips from her, eager.

"Hail!"

A shuddering breath and she continues on, clenching her abdomen to expel the howl with all the power she has. Oh, the Skálds would be proud of her. The tenor of her voice... the strength. "Hail! Wolves of this cold land! I am Bylgja Hausakljúfr! I would speak with you!" She waited, then, peering into the distance.