through the gates of hell

The cold north winter does wonders for the boy's lungs. It's clear and fresh, bracing. A chill that lives inside him and keeps him company, even if there are things he'd rather not think about. Rather not dwell on. Erik doesn't need to think. He needs to hunt, he needs to breathe, he needs to be.

Drifting from the Steppe to the lands beyond, Erik's gaze is keen. While he's been here, it's never been his home before. Stepping out into the Thicket, the viking boy tips his head, scenting the air. There are creatures here, tasty ones, rustling in the undergrowth. The musk of a wild boar... time for bacon? Count him in.

"speech"