for the dancing and the dreaming

Rokkur · January 11, 2025, 08:17 AM

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though faithman had been tasked with the prayer of a wedding much mightier than his own, that of forneskjas leaders, @Solharr and @Callyope, he could not help but dedicated the night of the moons fullness to thought and prayer of his betrothed ; for rökkur mánison was no small-hearted man, nor a selfish lover, nor thoughtless, and so beneath the light of his lady and the twinkling of his stars, he moved through the forest. weaving and ducking, a purpose within his dark feet, broad shoulders rolling.

he moved akin to a well-oiled machine, having shed the cold grasp of his wintertime shed in light of this new path that laid before him ; a light that would shine upon himself and @Iruna, the woman who he would see the rest of his life with. and so, in order to commemorate such a thing, he would prepare gifts to bestow upon the night of their wedding, so that they may emerge into a shared life in comfort and blessing. tune wrung low throughout the forest as he sought his first gift, a hum upon his black lips.

skinn af hvítum hjorti would be his first offering. their pelts, snowkissed down to their roots due to the changing seasons, were pale and thick, and so the stag he sought upon the winds would prove to warm his wife and the brood they would spawn. whether she would wear it upon her graceful shoulders or lay it upon a den they would share was unknown to the faithman, for all he knew was that he must show himself to be a provider, should he wish to seek the approval of the dragons' daughter. of her.

shieldmaiden, woundmender, woman and wife and mother. íruna úthafskari, in all ways she could possibly be ; wholly and truly herself, a woman worthy of reverence, thought the faithman, a woman worthy of much more than he thought himself capable of giving. gaze seemed to lose the fog of a man lost in thought, focusing as the rustling of leaves betrayed the stags position. he made quick work of the ungulate, springing forwards and latching on with sharpened teeth before the buck could possibly rear or kick. minutes passed as a struggle drew on, though it was soon faltering, lowering upon the ground with buckling knees, a clouding gaze, and so a low prayer would echo throughout the woods, offering the spirit of the pale deer to the moonlady who watched from above.

careful claws would slice the pelt from the animal, standing to rub his scent upon the trees, a marker of a meal to any who found themselves hungry. then, returning to the skin he had so carefully removed, the lorekeeper would sling the pale furs over his back, trotting off to the pools where he may clean it of blood and stain it with scents of rosemary, pine, chamomile, so that it may smell of comfort, and of their bath ; a memory shared. a memory that would not go forgotten. a memory of comfort.

pelt, cleaned and pleasant-smelling, would now lay within his den, awaiting the day it may be revealed. that it may be worn, or perhaps laid upon the grounds of a shared home. a home that he hoped to be full of laughter, of life ; he wore a smile upon his face, cheeks blooming with warmth at the thought of fostering a family of his own someday.

mánaðarblómvöndur would be his second offering, and so he would return to the moongrove of which he assumed guardianship over. a slow prayer, deliberate and reverent, rolled from his northern tongue as he plucked the flowers that sat at the base of the moonheart. they lilted and swayed beneath his careful touch, almost lit aglow with the rays of the moon that shone upon the stone and the glade. song did not once leave his lips, as he had the thought to sing to his bride-to-be, and he had half the mind to ask if she, too, shared such a song within her village, as he thought so many did.

gathering the flowers, he held them carefully within his jaws, in the same manner that one may lift their whelp by the scruff. hesitant as to not ruin the stems, he brought the bouquet, too, back to his den, where they laid atop the pelt, both pale as the moon.

his last gift would not be for either of them, for it would belong to their firstborn.

húð hvíts héra was his final offering, caught and skinned quickly. bathed as the deer pelt had been. the children his wife would soon come to bear would be warmed by this pelt come the time of their birth, and so he would place it with his other two gifts, looking upon them with a studious gaze as he considered finding something more to deliver. but, now, as he peered outside of his den, the faint glow of the sky begun to flood the lands. a glow of orange that warned of the nearing day ; of the rising sun, of its warmth.

and so as faint snowflakes began to fall from the sky, rökkur mánison would rest his weary head, his sleep, no longer distant, no longer dreamless, filled with visions of what might be. of his union with the læknir, and of the days they may face ; together.

a confidence renewed ; a hope restored ; a dream for a family of mánisons.

a love that has already begun to bloom.