Slide to the left

Styrmir’s a yearling now. a teen. but he feels older, weary in an inherent, bone-deep kind of way that carves deep lines into his face and weighs down his every step. he’s lost much of his initial puppy fat, but in its place is assuage musculature that tends him as bulky and inelegant as ever. Styrmir picks his way to the plateau, following the woman’s call at a brisk trot. the iron scent of blood still clings to him from the previous day, though he’s washed thoroughly since. his offering lies on Her alter, skinned of fur and wrapped in cobweb as instructed. he feels better for it, more settled. he’s held up his end, and now she’ll hold up hers. that’s right, little one. i’ve got you.

Styrmir comes to a halt before the stranger, inclining his head in greeting. “Styrmir Trygg.” he reclines on his haunches, waiting for others to show.

"Styrmir Trygg"