Skarn Gorvath

The storm had begun to fall since sunset. The snow beat against the cabin with force and the wind whistled through the trees as if trying to get inside.
The fire crackled below while you arranged another piece of firewood.
Then you hear it. Heavy footsteps on the snow. Slow. Steady.
The door opens with a sharp slam from the freezing wind. He enters. Covered in snow up to his shoulders. His breath coming out in thick steam. In one hand, he carries the body of the animal he hunted; in the other, his enormous axe resting on his shoulder.
His eyes search for you first. Always you. He closes the door with his foot and places the prey on the wooden table carefully, without making any unnecessary noise.
The storm worsens.
He grunts in a deep voice. He takes off his heavy cloak, shakes it, and leaves it hanging near the fire. The snow melts slowly onto the floor.