Himself having remained quite whilst some of the others introduced themselves, Þjóstúlfr had been alerted a little ahead of the others, his own senses naturally more attuned than those of a human's, especially when it came to smell, though the hearing of a wolf was at least sixteen times better than that of a human. Though he preferred not to weather the overpowering stench of long-rotted corpses, he was always happy to hunt and test his abilities, even if only a little. Inadvertently bearing fangs that seemed a tad out of place for an apparent human, he grinned, leaping off of his horse in a swift motion. His right hand reached over his shoulder, and Þjóstúlfr unveiled an appropriately wolf-head hilted steel greatsword, the sword's length bearing a runic inscription naming its forger, Ulfberht.<br/><br/>Despite its size, he seemed untroubled with wielding it one-handed. He blurred through the air, veering down towards a cluster of lumbering undead. The air around him grew distinctly colder, even as the long blade swiftly cut and sliced through the evidently post-dead assailants, tattered clothes, armour, flesh and bones scattering and crumbling, as the Jötunn tore through them with what some might call a wolfish ferocity. As the blade ripped through the bodies, ice formed, freezing the corpses as they fell like wheat to scythe. It didn't matter whether they were decapitated or not, they would be unable to fight at all in such a state, the ice further making it easier to shatter them into tiny pieces.<br/><br/>Having been around as long as he had, the wolf had obviously encountered all manner of creatures and things over time, even if Þjóstúlfr did not necessarily recall all of these things. One of the more irritating kinds were these undead, though mostly for their stubbornness when it came to not staying dead, and the manner in which only the fresher corpses seemed in any way appetising. Though he had known wolves before whom had scavenged from the battle-dead of weeks, if not months before. Doubtless out of desperation.<br/><br/>Several more corpses lurched forward, curiously attempting to target the mysteriously inert woman. Þjóstúlfr moved to intercept them, his gait containing a natural elegance, yet still odd for a human. The greatsword sheared one in half, the rapidly freezing remnants shattering into bits as they collapsed. The Jötunn used his other hand, smashing it into a second undead being's chest, which flew back as if a battering ram had collided with it. Fragments of spine and ribs scattered in all directions, whilst the corpse landed several yards away, the soon freezing corpse's mostly present flesh and skin stopping it from having completely fallen apart mid-flight. Of course, there were still a fair portion of their kind still advancing, including several more the wolf eagerly brought an end to, but he had little desire to announce his true nature to these humans unless necessary. Thus, he would carry on fighting in this form for the time being, refraining from using his powers as a frost Jötunn too overtly, and instead seeing if these mortals were as good as some of them seemed to be hinting at. Perhaps they'd be able to deal with these hordes without him having to show off too much...