Neverwinter Forest and no sun

all welcome but maybe a @Callyope ?

wishing to discuss his seasonal depression !!! so early tw for similar themes

rökkur would linger outside the bounds of the area in which was only permissible for women to enter, and as he was but a man, he would not dare to cross within such lines. instead, seeking conversation and perhaps a weight lifted from dark shoulders, he would tilt his head back, lips pursing as a long, almost sorrowful howl left his maw.

wintertime lethargy was no stranger to him, and yet this was his first experience in seeking the comfort or wisdom of someone that could potentially help. it was with the seiðkona that he wished to share his wellbeing with, as the wolves of forneskja currently lacked hjartvörður. he was hoping that, should a counsellor come along, he could get a word in with them, but otherwise rökkur would make do with what he could get.

he moved away, now. away from the border in which marked the womens-spaces, instead settling within a comfortable spot of the forest, leaning against a fallen log and allowing his eyes to close for a moment, a mere moment, before they snapped wide open, beady and scarlet as the river that had raged the mountains.

a breath, two, reaffirmed his position within the forest.

a momentary weakness.

<333

she had started to wonder if she was ill.

then doubted such a thinking and returned to her work. if only to distract body and mind so that she could not panic. soon, soon, she must go to moonglow. she must whisper into an anaa's ears and know the truth.

yet forneskja tethered her — with love! with pride! — and she was no longer so free to go as she pleased.

not when her people needed her presence, when she prepared her own wedding alongside many others.

the call and presence of another was a welcomed distraction. she set aside the blessed ramskin, tucked back into now snowy roots of the tall tree it hid in. when she emerged it was to see him there. tucked away in a similar fashion to the blessed bundle.

Sögumaðr, she whispered softly and approached on featherlight steps. she did not wish to invite others into this moment. it was meant only for Sögumaðr and Seiðkona.

callyope was swift approaching on steps that hardly seemed to make contact with the ground, rather as if she were gliding towards him akin to a spirit, a ghost. seiðkona, he murmured in response, giving a formal bow of his head. a simple moment that was not meant to be shared, a time where the two of them could convene in their lonesome.

i wish to discuss with you, came the guardian's weary voice, heavy, rough, akin to his limbs, his fur. he felt as if there were river rocks within his toes, his arms, his stomach, waying him down endlessly. drawing in a breath, the lorekeeper says: i think i may have some sort of ... ailment. uncertain of what it may be, he went to her for guidance.

and so she lowered herself.

everything about her remained perfectly level. she did not worry — for forneskja found itself overrun with menders. whether his body or spirit carried the ailment was the only detail they must worry over.

tell me of your symptoms, she encouraged with a gentle nod.

ginger ears tall with listening, attention given only to him now.

tell me of your symptoms, and so he would. rökkur studied her face for a moment, careful, curious, before he gave a long breath and begun: i am ... exhausted, often, came his words, weary as his eyes, as his paws. though, when i lay down to rest, sleep escapes me. my nights without moonlight nor prayer seemed to foster nightmares, each a darker version of what are already unbearable memories.

i feel an urge to isolate ... to turn away from others.

another sigh. he tore his scarlet gaze away from callyope's ambers, as if partly ashamed to be admitting such things, though he knew in front of the queen of the neverwinter that there was no reason to. he continued, then: i have had this ... illness ... before. it only strikes during wintertime, as i believe many illnesses do, right?

perhaps it was something common. he hoped so, anyway.

it seemed as though the man had become winter itself.

dark and exhausted.

isolated.

she thinks she has seen it before in a place far from where. the sunshine was not always so common where she had walked. these days had been hard for even the bravest of hunters.

the hardest illness comes for us in the winter. she reached for a roughened paw now. she did not wish for him to hide away a gaze that may hold emotion. forneskja was only strong together, only if they helped one another.

winter means to take many things, to make it harder upon us — so that spring's bounty is all the more treasured. she whispered now. not to dismiss but to be light upon these dark matters.

when was your first winter with this?

sorry for the wait!!

her words came like a remedy, soothing an ache within his soul that seemed to both burn and freeze ; hot, like a sweltering flame, it stung his body and his arms and his legs with every step her took ; cold, like a thick block of ice, it was heavy and turned his blood black and thick. he said: littlest days, with a thick tone. he felt submerged in a tar-pit.

we fought young, he moved, as if it make himself more comfortable, and met the moonwomans gaze once more, searching it, as if for some sort of sign, some sort of whisper that perhaps he should just give up and leave. there was no sparring. only death. i survived because i killed, callyope, his last words came as a whisper, slick with guilt. i was the strongest because i was unrestrained, he felt he may choke.

he took a breath, then, and looked up through the treetops, where the moon would show only a fifth of her face. she was looking away from him. i am plagued, his gaze returned to the woman in front of him. with guilt, with memories, with awful things.

i do not know how to fix it, callyope, he lowered his head and sighed.

she did not shy away.

men killed, she knew this. women gave out harsh punishments too, if they must. the ways of sunshine were old — and she had seen the harsher lives of others when she had walked far.

fixing is for broken things. she whispered at last.

you are not broken. your life is different, you require other things. things that you should not hold alone. a paw reaching into the small space between them.

there is death in this forest, too. perhaps it is them that keeps you awake, that brings darkness with you.

she did not think — her sister would never. yet she knows that the feeling of a spirit is not welcomed by all, is it?

cleanse in the cold waters each day, say a prayer of peace three times. look to the sun each morning in the clearings. in the moonlight, before sleep, whisper your words into the Mánilundur. let it carry your thoughts while you sleep.