for Ananias .. this is a bit of a word vomit idk lol

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scarcely does gjalla dread bathing. often it is an enjoyable act, and the only thing that changes that now is that she is drenched in scarlet—the water must go deep, and the pond she stands before was no indulgent spring. it has no mineral warmth to seep into her bones, and the cold will linger until she dries completely.

steam ghosts faintly from her muzzle where blood still clings, dark against the raven sheen of her chest and forelegs. an elk carcass is somewhere nearby—the scent of blood is still rich in her nose; she had torn it open with purpose. she feels no shame in the goring of the beast—it was an offering to her goddess, and her jaw aches pleasantly from it.

gjalla eases herself into the pond with gritted teeth and the cold seizes her at once—a living, growing thing. it bites at her legs and climbs her ribs, stealing the breath right from her chest. she goes deeper anyway until the water laps at her shoulders and the ache settles into something manageable. she dips her face once to allow the cold to close over her spine, her throat. blood lifts from her coat in invisible ribbons and she resurfaces dripping wet, soothed.

Blood. A scent all too familiar, the metallic tang cutting through the crisp winter air as the moon gazed down upon the snow-laden fields. Ananias followed it blindly, curiosity laced with caution. It did not take long to find the corpse, torn open and left to the elements.

An offering?

She could think of no other reason for it to sit abandoned so deliberately. Bowing her head slightly, a gesture of respect meant to appease whatever god had been worshipped there, she began to move on, careful to keep her distance. Each step crunched softly beneath her paws, betraying her presence, but she did not care. The world felt quiet. Empty.

What was there to fear?

Someone making sacrifices? She had little doubt in her ability to handle herself should the need arise.

Those thoughts were interrupted by movement, by the sight of a dark figure submerged within one of the many ponds scattered throughout the area. Her ears perked, fur bristling instinctively, yet she remained calm. Another might have halted then, turned tail and fled.

Not her.

She moved forward until she stood at the pond’s edge, eyes tracing the form of the bathing woman as blood shimmered faintly through the cold water.

Hail.

The word was simple. Quiet. Intentional.