Einvald.

The wolves of the spine had come to join them in the misty mountains further south. With them came a culture that was all too familiar to Ezra. It was good to hear these words of his homeland again. He thought now what became of them, especially so now with the runes and plagues. Had Northfall finally succumb to the pressures of time? Was there still those that spoke of Stormborn anymore?

The spine wolves had merged with the pack of Saints and now Ezra found himself following the pawsteps of one of them now. The great white, as he thought of her. How long would they be miserable shaking out their thick coats to grow acustom to the much more southern region. Ezra shook, remembering his own discomforts not so long ago.

Now he comes to flank them both, his uncle and new Einvald. He remains just behind, a bloodied gaze studying the horde ahead of him. Wolves of the southern region. A place the norseman had no intention to go. Still, he looked to them curiously. They were an extravagant bunch to behold and what a great many pretty little trinkets they carried. The viking licked his lips with gluttonous hunger.