Jade Fern Grove white lines, pretty baby

It takes Wardruna a long second to realize that she is not speaking to him, though it is the ‘starry night’ bit of her bizarre little speech — which makes no sense to him whatsoever — that convinces him. She is strange, he thinks, and he is immediately skeptical of her, monochrome hackles bristling with unbridled unease as she speaks so openly to herself because, obviously the night sky is not going to answer her back. “It will not speak to you skrýtinn,” He breaks his silence from across the river to her, fixing her in his haunted albeit sharp gaze. He can only see her with one eye: and for the moment she looks further away than he thinks she is: but he is learning how to hide his blindness and does not show the unease he feels at not being able to properly judge the distance and depth of her proximity to him ( or even the true size of the river ). He knows, given time, he will learn but it has already been a few weeks and he cannot help his instinctual impatience with himself. “It’s just a night sky.” Wardruna speaks, his lilting voice unable to fully hide the bit of patronizing tone it holds. She is strange indeed and it leaves the northerner feeling unsure of her.