Here is her opponent. He's a man with a noble build; bigger than she is, with about the same amount of bulk distributed. Bylgja eyes him quietly, because the man looks like he has something to say and she's not about to interrupt him. No, there's no need to interrupt him. She is a woman of battle and snapping teeth, but battle is a ritual, even here on the strange field. Beauregard approaches, and he gives his name, and Bylgja raises her chin, staring at the man with a strange intensity before her lips curl into a toothy, sharp smile. Her mannerisms are not entirely relaxed, but she is not overly hostile, either. She's a fighter. That's the best way to sum it: she's a fighter, and this is a fight, and she is ready for it. Her tail even wags, just a little.
"Bylgja Hausakljúfr." Her name comes between her teeth, clicking against her jaws. The broad-bodied woman twitches somewhat, enough to jostle the sheathe for her axe, and she draws it with a singular motion, practiced, easy. She holds the axe before Beauregard, adjusting her grasp just-so, ensuring that he can see her expertise with it. She is not a woman of political acumen, nor is she overly smart in the way of intellectuals, but there's an art to the way she holds the blade. She's many things, and foremost of those is this: a woman of violence and pride. Adjusting her grasp, she tilts the blade, letting Beauregard see the runes carved into the steel. Her smile is broad, confident. All of her is confident. When she speaks again, Bylgja speaks before throwing the axe into the air, letting it topple head over heel, three mighty turns before it thunks into the ground at her side, buried sharp side down in the blood-soaked earth. She says:
"It means Skull-Cleaver." Her heavily accented voice rumbles forth; Bylgja does not posture as she speaks. Instead, she just speaks. The words come from her as if she is making conversation. There is no boasting, not really. Here, on the Battlefield, she is met with a man who introduces himself and speaks of honor, and in turn, she discards her axe. Simple. "I am from Heiðinn, Norad-Man." Perhaps he doesn't know of her pack. She doesn't mind. They make their own truth. They forge their own legacy. Bylgja will educate him, if he does not know. The painted woman grins once more. Hungry. Wild. She does not speak with pride, but there is pride in her; in the way she holds herself, in the way she so readily discarded her weapon. As if she is reciting facts about the weather, Bylgja continues. "Raven-Wood." She does not know the language too well; her accent cuts it, and Bylgja is clearly feeling her way through his last name. "You fight well and I send son to fight you too! Hah! He needs learning." There is a joke somewhere that she does not elaborate on. Her tone is jocular, though. Merry.
He does not know her, of course. He does not know of Strai, who had been crushed by prey, and he does not know how Bylgja heaved Astraios to safety. But Bylgja has determined in the moment that if this man fights well, Sir Ravenwood, then she will send her son to battle him, because Beauregard surely fights in a way that differs from the wolves of their pack. And, perhaps, they will surprise him together, so that they may truly test this stranger.
She thinks of Strai facing this particular man, with all of his stripes against the bone spurs, and chuckles low in her throat. Bylgja steps forward, then, her head up. She spits into the dirt, grinds it in with a paw, and eyes Beauregard with a look that is not so much wary as it is eager.
There are things she wants to tell him: in my pack, I am a healer, but she does not. Instead, Bylgja stretches out her limbs, one leg after the other, and for the first two limbs -- her right back leg and left front leg -- nothing happens at all.
But when she finishes stretching out the right front leg, when she finishes wriggling her toes as if teasing Beauregard with the promise of blood, when that paw hits the dirt below her, Bylgja launches herself forward without a warning. Her battle-cry doesn't even start until she's taken two steps; sure, he's bigger than her, but she's tenacious, and Bylgja has not earned her last name by standing idly by when faced with a larger foe. Her attack is a simple one, but it is an effective one. This much the woman has learned over the years. She charges forward, and tries to lock her forepaws about Beauregard's neck and shoulders so that she can bite at his snout, his face, his cheek, whatever she can reach. It is a tried and true tactic.
Something about this man's approach makes Bylgja feel as if she must truly batter him. It's nothing against him. He has done nothing wrong-- but he has a spirit about him that Bylgja appreciates, and that means she wants to wring him to the dirt and seize him with her teeth and celebrate what they are: alive, breathing, red-blooded. She wants to spill his blood because when she spills blood, that is a celebration, an act of worship. Too many wolves lay down and die when they're faced with hardship. Bylgja has fought revenants in the skin of her family. Of her loved ones. This fighting is not that. This fighting is the celebration of flesh and blood, the joy of sinew, the snapping of primordial teeth.
She intends to draw the fight out. Intends to see Beauregard truly tested, because he carries himself so strongly. He is, as she believes, worthy of such a fight! And so, Bylgja laughs deep and brassy, delighted to have joined with such a foe. Perhaps, later, she will meet him again and he will understand her view-- or maybe not. Who can tell, eh? Not her.
"Bylgja"
