hide your tears, it kills off the sorrow

it’d been following him since he’d left Hemlock that morning, and Styrmir had officially had enough. at first, he thought perhaps he was simply becoming overly paranoid - a trait he, admittedly, was rather prone to - but after an entire morning had been wasted dodging his new shadow, it was time to admit it: he was being stalked. in all honesty, this was a rather bad time for Styrmir to be followed; he was still on edge from his previous encounter with that Insomnia minx, the remnants of which seemed to linger days afterward. sometimes he swears he can smell her nearby, drifting on the edge of his awareness, her scent winding through his senses and filling his mind with buzzing static. a part of him hated her for it, hated her for having such a profound effect upon him. another part was deeply, worryingly fascinated. he wanted to pry her apart to see if they matched, if the darkness lurking beneath to his skin was mirrored beneath hers. but no. something told him in this they were not the same. similar, perhaps, but her flavour of madness - for they were both rather unbalanced creatures, let’s face it - smacked of something subtle and cunning in a way Styrmir could never be. the Viking boy was too straight-forward, more likely to blunder headfirst into trouble than bother considering something as drab as consequences. he didn’t analyse the way she could, didn’t have the knack for observation and facial assessment that she seemed to. perhaps it should anger him that she possessed what he lacked, but it only attracted him further.

he was a greedy, cloying thing, grasping for his deficiencies with clawed hands. give me, give me, give me. it’s a hunger that beats against his chest in time with his heart, one that fills his ears and roars through his blood. he feels it now as he turns sharply on his heel, pinning his shadow in place. cobalt eyes cut through the darkness, examining the broad-shouldered form of a young moose. it stares back impassively, anglers brushing the treetops, the only sign of movement the steady rise and fall of its smooth flank. Styrmir cocks his head, shifting his weight from foot to foot. interesting. he hadn’t anticipated this, had assumed his stalker to be lupine in nature. ’it feels your power, the voice hisses, a mix of amusement and pride. ’it longs to be consumed by a higher being. to fuel your divinity. Styrmir hums considerably. “i think,” he muses, his voice a deep rasp, “that perhaps you give us too much credit.” the voice sneers, but Styrmir’s attention snaps to the moose as its nostrils flare. Styrmir tenses, fur lifting along his spine. for a moment, he and the moose simply stare at each other.

and then, the moose startles forward as though physically struck, devouring the space between them in a matter of seconds. ’foolish creature!’ She hisses. ’does it not know it’s place?’ Styrmir’s mouth curves into an unpleasant smile. “we’ll just have to teach it.” he waits until the last moment to step out of range, allowing the moose a false sense of triumph, and watches with an amused snort when it falters. it’s hooves go skidding, slipping along the earth and glancing furiously from side to side. Styrmir gives a sharp yip, and the moose whirls in place, eyes landing on his unscathed figure. Styrmir dances in place, silently taunting. the moose flares it’s nostrils again. “come on,” he goads, “is that all you’ve got?”

as though in answer, the moose tosses its head and charges again, hooves kicking up a spray of dirt and foliage. once again, Styrmir waits, unable to stifle a cruel little laugh as it descends upon him. this time, he throws himself to the ground and performs a tight barrel roll, dust coating his pelt as he evades those sharp feet. he pulls himself to his feet, dust lifting into the air, and finds the moose watching him a few paces away, panting. ’let’s end this,’ the voice suggests. “yes,” Styrmir agrees, “let’s.” this time, he’s the one to charge the moose, lunging fearlessly for that muscled chest, and the moose darts forward to meet him. the pair of them lock eyes, each gaze set in a determined scowl as they aim for the other. Styrmir has never seen the value in fighting fair, however, and as they’re about to collide, he slips beneath the moose’s belly and lifts a paw, letting the momentum slice his claws along the beast’s underside. a cry of pain rings out. blood splatters across Styrmir’s fur as he wriggles out from beneath the moose, gore clogged between his nails. the moose staggers, a cocktail of anger and defeat. it’s stomach gapes open, a crimson maw spewing its contents across the forest floor. it lifts its head, once again meeting Styrmir’s eyes, and begins to crumple to the earth.

“that’s right,” Styrmir croons, “bow. bow to your god.”

"Styrmir Trygg"