It was true, of course, and Skaggi had already proven her ability to sleep damn near anywhere since the moment their hunt began. Her favorite was back to back with Lars or Ebbe, both were a veritable, steady strength, their deep breaths a shallow rocking motion that lulled her to sleep instantly. The same stood true for the trunks of ancient weeping spruce, their resinous tang as pleasant in her nose as the warmth of their ten thousand needles that draped around her. With a sigh that morphed into a sneeze, Skaggi unsheathed herself and her weapons from the mound of furs she slept beneath and readied herself without an audible word.
And if we skinned you, Modi, there'd barely be enough to string up.
Skaggi exited their shallow grotto abode without a backwards glance at the rest of her blessed companions. She missed Tove and her sparkling song of a voice. The remaining four of their generation had stayed behind, not receiving the missive for this particular quest. Skaggi hated it. The fact that she was chosen. Well, not entirely, but she was sick of the jowls that grunted out nothing but howls and constant quippy complaints. True, the storm that assailed them was absolute shit, but it was expected, given the circumstance.
This was as much about proving to the allfather that they were worth his blessing as it was procuring necessary goods for the harsh winter to come. It was a shame too, that they'd be unable to rendezvous with Tuve's twin brother, Stigr, and his sled dogs. There would be no update then, this month, from the village elders and their families. Though thankfully most of the wolf meat had already been sent back to be properly prepared and stored for the days ahead.
Thank you, Skaggi projected gratefully, rubbing at her temples beneath her thick fur-lined hood. It didn't really do the trick, the mittens lacked the finesse to do much besides grasping her axes. She'd have to take them off soon, when the hunt began and she'd need to nock, draw, and loose at a moment's notice. The bow was an excellent weapon, especially when your aim was steady and true— but she still preferred the weight in her palm and the dexterous swing of an axe overhead. South would be good, I think. Moror Ernah says some of the smaller game animals head south during this time too. Maybe we'll get lucky and catch something bigger than a squirrel."
She turned and searched Lars' face when he posed the question, a smooth transition in weight from her right to her left and she stared at him hard. Her nose still tickled from the earlier sneeze and she was tempted to lie. It would be easy, really. But she wouldn't, not to Lars— not that she could if she wanted to. "It's just— " How could she put it in words? A fylgjan premonition?
I just have a bad feeling, is all. Like an itch that's just out of reach. For the past few days, She shook her head, turning away and glaring off into the snow blanketed trees. She led the way forward, south by southwest, and continued the conversation, Something has just felt wrong. It's putting me on edge.