The crash of waves is music to Bylgja's ears. Her ears snap forward and her tail is high, wagging. The muscular woman moves through grass and foliage with a jaunty stride, her head high, her axe hanging at her side. She loves the axe, and what it means. She's taken it from its strap several times, looked at it, seen the sheen of its blade.
Truthfully, the woman appreciates the brutality of the cliffside as well. It's a scene that she's savored since she fought the bear at its edge. The viking woman walks, and when she sees another figure, dark-coated and ... fairly evidently here to enjoy the sights and sounds as well, she calls out in her throaty-deep voice, a tone that's sharp from years of roaring battle-commands and orders. "Hail!" It's a strong tone.
A brutish smile. "What brings you to the edge of ruin?"
