Neverwinter Forest [m] arrival

@Callyope

the frostbitten air clung to sólhárr as he crossed into the sacred grounds of forneskja, his broad frame bearing the marks of his brutal conquest. dried blood streaked the fur around his marred eye, and though the pain burned like fire beneath his skin, he pressed forward, unyielding. he carried the weight of the cache with him, the fruits of his grueling labor, his body both weary and triumphant.

his steps slowed as he neared the den—a place that, despite the cold hardness of his nature, stirred something primal and possessive within him. the faint scent of callyope reached him first, her essence weaving through the air like a balm. his single good eye flicked toward the shadowed entrance, where her presence lingered, drawing him in like the tide.

with a low grunt, sólhárr ducked his head and entered, his massive form filling the space. the fire-bright gaze of his intended greeted him, and without hesitation, he moved to her side, brushing his bloodied fur against hers in a deliberate, claiming motion. the roughness of his touch spoke volumes, an unspoken declaration of both his triumph and his exhaustion.

it is done, he rumbled, the words grating from his throat as he sank to his haunches, his breath visible in the chilled air. his battered form leaned subtly into her warmth, finding a fleeting solace in her proximity. though he would not speak of the pain or the battle, his presence alone was a testament to his resolve and the sacrifices he had made.

his eye flicked briefly to the cache he had stored nearby, the fruits of his labor awaiting their purpose. but for now, he stayed close, grounding himself in the presence of the woman who would soon share his name.

she lingered somewhere between sleep and waking.

a shifting of winds, a thought that she heard something. her beloved walked far to prove his intentions. forneskja churned with change welcomed.

moonspear had come to them in the form of a child.

and forneskja went to moonspear in need of healing.

moonglow had visited in the face of a bright nephew, full of promise and hope.

the bodies within forneskja found their places. continued their steady paces of learning and establishing among one another. everything flourished with ease. yet something gnawed at callyope. restless and yearning. perhaps it was the absence of her beloved. she knew she had picked right for her to miss him so fiercely and to keep things smooth in his absence.

the shifting winds.

they bring the scent of winter and blood. her eyes are wide for but a moment, then soften to see who has come. he is welcomed near and she is wordless for his returned presence. half not believing it! he is battered, bruised. she nearly missed the more demanding wound he carried — a missing eye. gone. a beloved thing taken from him.

from her.

her mouth parted as if she might finally say something.

nothing. only the breeze.

she buried herself into him. she let her own body carry the weight of his now, let herself absorb the scents he had brought home. for now the world was only them.

primal and untamed, towering in the quiet intimacy of their den. the wear of his journey clung to him—bloodied fur, marred flesh, and the hollow socket where his eye had once been. but his presence carried something undeniable: victory. claim. her scent wrapped around him as she buried herself into him, her silence as steady as the earth beneath their paws.

his. his wife. his woman.

he pressed his nose into her fur, inhaling her warmth as though it was the only thing that could soothe the storm within. then, with the weight of a conqueror, he stepped back just far enough to gesture toward the outside. his heavy breath carried the unspoken tale of his triumphs: the cache of foxes, their pure pelts pristine in the cold. the otters, seven strong, strung together by his own labor. the lynxes, their fierce grace now lifeless trophies. the seal, glistening wet by the stream, its thick fat promising bounty. and lastly, the ram—its dark, bloodied horns testament to the battle that had taken his eye.

he turned back to her, his single eye blazing, his voice a low growl brimming with finality. no more waiting, he rumbled. his breath warmed her ear, his teeth brushing lightly against her neck in a gesture both possessive and tender. in the morning, cally-ope. you will be mine, fully. my wife.

there was no room for argument in his tone, no hesitation in his movements. he leaned against her, primal and demanding, yet with the faintest flicker of reverence—a man who had hunted the world itself to bring it to her paws. you have waited long enough, elska. now, i take you.

she had never seen a bride price before.

she cannot hide the awe and shock that weaved together along her face. say something, her mind urged and yet her heart felt as if it swelled too large. that it blocked any voice from coming free.

her pulse leapt to greet where his teeth touched.

"my wife."

her gaze stayed fix to the mass of his work. it would need to be moved up to moonglow. he would need to rally his hunters and warriors.

she needed to prepare. she needed to make herself look like a wife! she need to — she was so dizzied by it all she nearly fell into him. she was breathless! it was laughter that broke her first, a misty gaze in her amber eyes now.

moonglow — she finally managed as she shoved herself into him. take luhtar. bring this to moonglow. let them hear your voice — and yet she was not letting herself part from him. this man who had brought so much just for her.

just for her.

there was a fire in her so demanding that she thought she might burn him. she is reaching for his face, to place a kiss near where an eye should be. to kiss at cheek, jaw and chin.

sólhárr’s body was weary, his muscles sore from the weight of his sacrifice, yet her touch renewed him in ways no rest could. he stood firm against her storm, the fire in her eyes igniting something primal in him. his lips trembled, parting to exhale the tension wound so tightly within him.

my wife, he murmured into her furs, the words deep and raw, pulled from the core of him. he closed his one good eye as she reached for him, her touch melting away the ache that lingered in his torn flesh. the other, ruined and mangled, was a scar now—a mark of the price he had paid for her, gladly given.

her laughter, her fire, her awe—it consumed him. she kissed him, her warmth igniting against his skin, and he leaned into her touch as though seeking absolution in the embrace of his woman, his wife, his future.

i go, he rumbled, his voice low, quiet, as though meant only for her. but not before i breathe the air of my wife. hear her prayers. his teeth brushed gently against her ear, a fleeting promise, before his body stiffened with purpose once more.

i will take luhtar. i will bring this to moonglow, he agreed, his breath hot against her neck. and they will hear my voice as they have never before.

he pulled away just enough to meet her amber gaze, the fire of his own resolve sparking like steel against flint. this was no simple task, but it was a duty he bore proudly—for her, for them.

his wife.

his.

forever, eternity theirs and in this moment it felt like eternity. only them and the heavy scents of his bounty. in him she saw husband, hunter, Hárkonungr.

she kissed him again and again.

these actions were her prayers. unspoken but held to her heart.

let us share air and breath, she told him in soft voice. feel our love, hjartsláttur. she sought to use teeth and tongue to clean the worst of his fur. to show her love in such worshipful acts now. there was no surprise in her to feel such an ease to tending him.

she nursed forneskja, she cared for those within.

she cared for him most of all.

husband.

a word whispered soft in the wild tangles of his autumn fur.

sólhárr was undone by her, as he always was. her touch, her voice, the very way she breathed life into his name—it unraveled the threads of his composure, leaving only the man beneath. she kissed him, again and again, and he received her with a reverence that bordered on desperation, as though each kiss was a piece of her soul that he could carry with him forever.

his golden eyes softened as he gazed down at her, her worshipful care drawing a quiet rumble of approval from his chest. when her voice whispered “husband,” it filled him with a pride so fierce it threatened to split him apart. she, his wife, his callyope, his everything.

you are my breath, my world, he murmured, the broken cadence of his common tongue softened by the rawness of his emotion. you tend me... as no other can.

he leaned into her touch, letting her tongue and teeth work through the tangles of his fur. her love was felt in every motion, every glance, every whispered word. sólhárr lifted a paw to rest gently against her side, a grounding touch as his head dipped to brush his nose along her cheek.

you are my hjartsláttur, he said lowly, the word rolling off his tongue like a vow. his heart beat in rhythm with hers, and he knew, in this eternal moment, that their love would carry them through all things.

only them.

yet in that moment she imagined their future, full of life and descendants. a hearth that overflowed with the sounds of learning tongues and stories told. how this time next year there might be their own children grown and finding soft blooms of crushes.

although this was no crush.

i am yours, in all ways.

whispered in vows of submission.

you are mine, in all ways.

whispered vows that spoke of her own claim, her own strength.

you have made such so in honor of us. for they were bound now. she would not let him go. not now, not even as a spirit. she'd bind herself to him for eternity. this was her belief.

sólhárr moved closer, his breath warm in the cool air between them, their world shrinking to only the space they shared. her words, vows whispered like a hymn, curled around his heart. he felt the weight of her devotion, the strength of her claim, and he matched it with the unyielding ferocity of his own.

you. mine, he rumbled, the words rough with the edges of his broken common tongue, but no less powerful. his golden eyes bore into hers, primal, untamed, as if to cement their bond in stone and fire. first snow. before pack. we wed. his lips brushed her ear as he spoke, a gesture tender yet wild, a promise sealed in breath and touch.

he pulled back only slightly, enough to look upon her, his hands rough and calloused but gentle as they cupped her face. tapestry of skuld. urðhalla praises us. we weave, he said, invoking the names of the nornir and their Hall of Fate. threads of forest. ivy, fur, silk. for tapestry. for us.

his voice softened, though the intensity in his gaze did not waver. we honor them. nornir. their winds, their fate. we ask. they bless. his thumb brushed against her cheek, a simple touch that spoke of his reverence for her, for this moment, for what they would become.

only us, he finished, his tone a mix of primal declaration and quiet reverence. we begin. now. forever.

what if this thread never ends plsnthanks

she pictured it now.

she wished to bring moonglow into their home, to invite down her sister of moonspear. a pain in her chest to think of all the other sisters who could not be witness to it.

they blessed us when they let us cross.

she could not keep away from him. kiss after kiss and finding only further adoration for him in each movement, each word. she remembered the first look of such a rugged man. she had thought he might be something untamable, something to find fear within.

instead they held one another. in him was a home and a future. how bright it shined for them both now!

let us gather these things for them — then they will bless us again in our hearth.

their future would shine in the soft faces of gentle babes.

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sólhárr’s amber eyes glinted with a mischievous light as callyope’s kisses peppered his fur, her affection as relentless as it was intoxicating. his lips pulled into a grin, teeth flashing briefly in the soft light of the glen. she was relentless, his callyope, and he adored her for it.

if you keep kissing, he rumbled, his voice rich with amusement, you will be swollen... before altar. his accent wrapped around the words, thick and unmistakable, though the warmth in his tone carried their meaning just as much as the words themselves.

his large frame shifted as he pressed his nose briefly to the curve of her neck, the gesture both tender and teasing. he chuckled softly, his laughter rumbling low and warm between them. then what pack think? hárkonungr cannot wait?

though his words teased, there was no hiding the fire in his gaze, the way he looked at her as if she were the only thing that mattered in the entire world.

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swollen.

she thought of herself fat with life. it might slow her but she thought of how happy she might be! that she would fill their home and forge their future from her own flesh and bone.

perhaps she should have at least feigned a demure sense. instead she lingered, teeth preening at his shoulders now. she moved her legs so she might circle him!

or perhaps they will see Seiðkona for what she is, hm? life giver, spirit maker.

her pulse is alive and pounding within her.

now her teeth seek to nip at his hips and feel the ripple of strong muscle beneath them.

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sólhárr turned his head, catching her movements with the sharp awareness of a predator, though his golden gaze softened with something far more tender. the weight of her presence, the warmth of her touch—it was all consuming, yet he didn't know better to pull himself from the mortal pull.

loyal, callyope, he murmured, his voice a quiet storm, thick with his accent and deliberate in its cadence. to gods, always. i am just a man. man. desperate for wife. the words carried an ache, a reverence that settled deep in his chest, even as the shadow of a grin tugged at his lips.

i take. only if Seiðkona wants.

he shifted slightly, his muscular frame braced as her teeth grazed his hip, drawing a low, almost inaudible growl from his throat. her persistence, her fire—it was intoxicating. still, he leaned down, brushing his nose against her crown in a rare moment of stillness.

and then he did circle her. with her nose against the staunch of his groin she lit fire in its wake. lifegiver she had called herself. she will bring life to them. to forneskja. with his seed endowed in her womb. the gods would be pleased. he moved to let his arms graze the divots of her hips.

fade to black ;)

and in his hold was warmth.

she had never — yet she welcomed him with love.

———

in his arms. where a whole new world had been crafted time and time again. how many worlds might she make with him? their future held the warmth of summer despite their innate winter roots.

she wanted to say something.

maybe a question? maybe a decleration.

she only pressed her head to his side and listened for heartbeat.

sólhárr felt the echo of their closeness within his chest, the steady thrum of his heart grounding him as callyope pressed against his side. her softness was something foreign to him, a delicacy he handled as though she might dissolve under too much weight.

callyope, his voice rumbled low, intimate, as his muzzle brushed through her fur, lingering just at her crown. you are... soft. new snow beneath paw. i know it is first for you. i feel it in how you give. how you trust.

his golden eyes softened as he tilted his head to look at her, the steady rhythm of her breath against his side anchoring him further. her silence was not empty; it spoke of a connection neither of them had yet named but both understood.

with me, you are safe. always. you give much, and i will give more. his words carried a promise, one he intended to keep.

he shifted slightly, his large frame enveloping hers, his paw covering hers with a deliberate gentleness. the cold outside could not reach them here, where their warmth was shared, a bond forged in quiet understanding and the strength of their union.

vulnerability.

she realized now that was the emotion that stirred within her. sólhárr now knew each part of her. no hiding, no shelter.

why would she ever need such? he was her shelter, her home. in his grasp she stayed and felt no discomfort with the words he spoke.

she should free him, send him off to moonglow at once. she found a hunger for his presence for just the night. before the sun stirred above the horizon she would send him.

i will give you the moon, the stars.

for these things lived within her.

but you? you give me life in many ways. she whispered into the crook of a strong arm. this life will always be ours. say it, in your tongue. it was not quite a plea, but she looked up to his face now — seeing the marks he bore just to hold her hand in marriage.

the quiet, tender moments is what the chieftain of forneskja sought. when battles raged, him at the helm, he would only think of his soft wife, waiting and praying beneath the heimrtree.

but the chieftain was selfish when it came to his bride-to-be. more than any man could understand, except those that had found their star in the darkest night skies. she had been from the north, deep in her soul, and he could feel it pulsing around them.

and in the warmth of her neck, the cavity of her throat, he spoke for them. at her command. dette livet vil alltid være vårt.

this is a promise the chieftain can rouse with. he would be satisfied up until their wedding day; a day for laughter, for cheer, and for life to prevail. an opportunity for the gods to judge forneskja beneath its glimmering light.

i promise this. my wife. my love.