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A Mere Touch of Malice (1 Viewer)

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Crach an Craite

Oar Guy
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He awoke on his side, heart pounding and mind a mess consisting of thoughts ranging between, "Am I dead?" and "Where am I?" His legs were tired, the frozen wind slicing into his bare flesh only pushing him forward to the pile of nonsense beside the ravenous waterfall. Dropping to his knees as he neared falling unconscious once more, he'd come to realize he could see only through his right eye. And only there came to realize his shaking, to which he snatched his coat from the ground to try and regain at least a sliver of his dignity. Blood ran down his lip, and it wasn't his. He covered the gash upon his face where his eye once called home to try and cull the cold that tried to creep in, and staggered off down the river. "Enjoy your vile reward, twit." Being his only thought at the moment for the small Hestark.

He stopped. Looking down at the bloodied snow and the nearly split amber eye that sat there. His stomach turned, and a sliver of hate slithered through him. Crouching down, he'd gently hold the disgusting thing, and then got up and carried on walking.
"I need to fix this..."

He made way back to Auðrstað, snatched a medic and had his head bandaged hastily around the eye. He ignored their questioning on what he held, and upon checking to see whether his wife and child were alright, would submerge the cruel amber orb of once functioning biology into a small jar, filled to the brim with water cold, and sealed tightly. A gift for a natural killer. He'd then leave, awaiting for his stinging headache to subside fully on a trek to Hundabæli. "I wonder if she still wants a trophy?" Low muttering lost to the wind.

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