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it is not everyday a norseman sees anything other than a bird fall from the sky. he catches only the end of it in his peripheral, a shape dropping down until it was swallowed by the white and the dead brush. cocking his head, sigvard follows their former position in the air to find the dent they were sure to have left behind.

he moved without hurry, pressing through crusted snow and dead brush alike until the trees thin just enough to show her, red against the pale ruin of the land, unsteady on her feet.

for fear of startling her, sigvard doesn't approach the she-wolf straight on. he angled to a slow circle, green eyes dragging over her in open assessment—no shame in it, he likes to think. only looking for breaks, injuries. finding little worth concern, the brute comes with feigned sheepishness around the corner. hm. a low sound, thoughtful. approving, even. you are not dead.