[northern territories, 16th century.]

[changeinasnap]

This far north, hang around long enough and your chances of survival dwindle their way down to zero pretty fast. Nomads wander through every so often, but they're gone quick enough, hastened along by awful dreams and shadows in the dark.

It suits his mood. He dresses up the shadows with sharper teeth than he'd normally allow and lets them do their work, for little reason other than spite and staking his territory. Eventually, travelers learn to avoid his circle of land, and the frozen earth grows silent except for his own breath.

It's perfect, as far as he's concerned.

Comments

[changeinasnap]

Who said I was mocking that time? he almost asks -- but by then, Baldur's halfway up the hill, and it's probably better for them both if he keeps his mouth shut anyway. He looks down at the grass; crouches, after a moment, to rest his fingertips on the thin patch of green. The blades don't crinkle with frost when he touches them.

He probably ought to move back down south pretty soon.

Not now, though. Give it a little longer.

Not yet.