...And my axe!
Jackal
Bylgja watched as he tested the axe. With a quiet noise, she reached out to take it. It felt weighted right. She gave it a momentary little practice swing, just enough to feel the heft of it, and came away with a satisfied nod, curling her claws into the ground beneath her. "I can put the edge on myself." It isn't said defensively, though-- it's almost reverent. Bylgja wants to do this part herself-- she's helped, so far, but this is going to be the part that unites her with the axe. She sets the axe down long enough to find a coarse stone. Then, Bylgja settles with the axe, and begins to grind the stone over it, working the metal down. The runes are set in close to the axe's grip, thankfully; there's no concern about whittling them away as she sharpens the axe, easing the edge into it with a practiced movement. She leans into each motion of the stone; she moves the axe, too, ensuring that it does not become overly thin. This is the work of someone who knows what a weapon means. Something behind her eyes. Promise, maybe. She drags her cheek fur against the axe. It cuts. Flutters slowly to the ground beneath her. Bylgja looks at the axe. She remembers the help of her cousins, as she learned to hammer metal. Remembers the heat of a forge. She turns the weapon over in her claws. Her jaw clenches. Relaxes. She breathes out. Then she stands, and whatever she was ruminating over is gone.
"Is wonderful. If you're up for it, we could kill something. Cure the hides. Make a backstrap." He has an out. If he wants it. Sure, she can find a strap here, somewhere-- but it will be different to make one. To feel the life leave beneath her teeth, and make that death into something new. |