credencex.
roaring is the fight, the colour of blood against the blanket of beyond icy snow a therapeutic investment for the monster of a man, && as ever, he will lose himself to it almost wholly; for is there a thing in this god forsaken world that doesn't make him feel better? what else makes him give that wolfish grin so readily?
nothing. nothing does. he knows that, the world knows that. or, rather, the world of the free folk. those without the implemented desire to kneel to people they have no respect for.
tales of the ice river clans are turned on their heads by none other than Connar the Boneless. no longer shall they be known as untimely more vicious than his people. no more shall they wreak disaster over what he has personally claimed as his own lands. && swinging an already scarlet, glinting wet axe through another man's face only seeks to prove that. to himself, that is.
he has tailed this clan of foragers for days, && been able to take care of them swiftly, with little intervention. exactly how the wolf likes to prowl && hunt the most. a moment is spared in the ethos to let him rest, his breaths coming in heavy, catching like smoke on a frozen air; though the sight of the man caught afore him, shrouded in tree && in gloom; it's enough to render him motionless.
even Connar sees, here, that he, potentially, is at risk of death. this man is not the piddly farmer he previously, && mercilessly, took care of. this is a warrior. he can see it in his eyes. excitement spikes his blood to pump faster, && a fight is anticipated briefly; before, in the tense silence, he will stand properly.
' ------------------ sled rider or ice river? '
