Neverwinter Forest where the moon sets

the forest stood in near-perfect silence, its usual symphony of rustling leaves and distant wildlife hushed beneath the weight of the night. the moon hung low and full, casting its pale glow through the breaks in the pine canopy, lighting sólhárr’s path like a guiding spirit. his breath came in measured puffs, fogging in the cool air, and his steps, though deliberate, made little sound upon the moss-laden ground.

he was drawn toward the tunglhjarta, the stone of the moongrove, where he thought rökkur might linger. something about the night called him here—not the weight of duty, nor the burden of leadership, but a quieter pull. a question seeking its answer.

the trees thinned as he neared the grove, the familiar sight of moonflowers circling the clearing’s heart bringing a momentary stillness to his pace. there, standing tall and ancient, was the tunglhjarta, its rugged surface bathed in silver light. he paused just beyond the clearing, his amber gaze scanning the expanse, looking for the telltale silhouette of the wolf he sought.

@Rokkur, he called, his voice low but steady, a thread meant to carry through the tranquil night. he stepped closer, his shadow stretching across the moonflowers, his ears pricked for any sign of the other wolf.

can build some skills for ya

on my knees thanking you for this

trade: spiritualist

the guardian's name was called, and so he would answer.

he was ducked down behind the boulder, carefully nudging at the earth from which the moonflowers grew. picking away pests and crushing them beneath his claws, allowing pollinators to remain so that the flowers may grow tall, thick around the base of the stone. and at the voice of his king, he moved aside, tall and well-muscled, silver underneath the light of the máni. his lady.

yes, sólhárr? he returned, eyes wide, red and curious. like shining rubies within a dark cave, framed by the shadow that his brow bone casted upon his face. defined. almost stoic. though his demeanor practically shone, an aura that surrounded him like a bright, holy light. repurposed to be of service to the moongrove. to enjoy his work. to tell his stories. and he wondered if that was what the hárkonungr sought.

a moment of silence. the soft hum of the grove, lively with critters that moved beneath the grasses, nocturnal, blessed. another word, or six. how may i be of assisstance?

he wondered, then, if it was wisdom that the king desired.

sólhárr's gaze lingered on the tunglhjarta as he stepped closer, the glow of the moonflowers casting soft light upon the sacred stone. the air here felt heavier, charged with an energy that seemed to come alive under the watchful eye of the máni. his amber eyes shifted to meet rökkur’s, their depths alight with quiet reverence.

rökkur, he began, his voice low and steady, each word carefully measured. the máni watches us tonight, her light stronger than most. i seek her wisdom.

he tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable but not unkind. i wish for a reading, here, beneath her light. something to guide me, to tell me what path i must tread next. the forest speaks, but i cannot always hear its words. perhaps the gods will offer clarity where i cannot find it.

his gaze softened, a rare vulnerability slipping through his usual stoicism. my wife builds her circle, and i feel the gods’ threads weaving through her hands. i wonder if they have guidance for me as well—something i must do to ensure their favor, for her, for our people.

he stepped back, nodding to the stone. will you call upon them, rökkur? will you ask the máni to show us what is hidden?

trade: spiritualist

he had been right. it was wisdom he sought, and so he had come to the man of faith. the lorekeeper. the sögumaðr. and rökkur would nod his head, accepting, patient. a reading was what he yearned for, and so a reading was what he would receive. he spoke of his path, his wife. the trú-maður was compelled to deliver.

it is the moon of bogmaður, he begun, closing his eyes, letting his belief flow through him like water. accepting the spirits and the guidance that his ancestors had delivered. the teachings of his people. his mother. the archer. he is telling you to hold on to your ambitions. he speaks of a long journey, of optimism.

and the máni; she hides a quarter of her face, he looked up, then, eyes now open. waning gibbous above of them. she warns you of moving forwards too brashly. consider your past when making decisions. learn from your experiences and use them to better yourself: do not make the same mistake twice. his gaze returned to the king.

a knowing glow hid behind his eyes, wise and distant. beyond their plane. but she also whispers of the end of a period. new growth. a new cycle. she is urging you to continue fighting. to push forwards through the rough periods, though not without care and precision. ambition is something that she also speaks of, akin to her son. a nod.

and it seemed, then, that he returned to the present. to the grove. i hope this reading comes of use to you, he said, then. a careful blink, compassionate and loyal. always available for questions, for guidance. do you seek anything further?

sólhárr listened intently, his head slightly inclined as rökkur’s voice wove the threads of wisdom into something tangible. the hárkonungr’s yellowed eyes glinted in the moonlight, their usual sharpness softened by thoughtfulness. each word the sögumaðr spoke felt like it was plucking at strings inside him, striking chords of ambition and caution alike.

the moon of bogmaður, sólhárr murmured, rolling the phrase over his tongue as though tasting its weight. he straightened slightly, absorbing the meaning of rökkur’s guidance. ambition, patience, and precision. his voice held no question—only the echo of affirmation.

his gaze flickered upward to the moon hanging above them, its light dappling the moongrove in a silvery sheen. the waning gibbous stood watch, quiet yet commanding. he exhaled, a low sound in the stillness of the grove, his breath visible in the cool night air. the máni has her wisdom, always. i will heed her counsel.

sólhárr turned his gaze back to rökkur, the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth betraying the gratitude that swelled in his chest. your words are taken deeply, rökkur. they are reminders of what i must hold true to. this place, my wolves. his voice lowered, quiet but steady. and my wife.

there was a pause, a lingering note of something unspoken, before he tilted his head. how does she fare? callyope, he asked, his voice softening further at her name. she has been ever busy—melding herself to her tasks and her circle of women. i see her less.

though his tone remained steady, the flicker in his eyes betrayed his yearning to know. what do the gods say?

trade: spiritualist

and he smiled, then, for he did not need the gods to know what must be done about callyope: speak with her, sólhárr, he said, eyes creased, though glittering with knowledge. and then he would raise his paw to the kings' chest. the gods rarely visit our physical plane — i can only translate their whispers. they will not speak of callyope, but even i know that you must reach out to her.

he pulled his paw back, sitting down upon his rump in an almost graceful manner, painted by the moonlight and all of its' holiness. she works hard — and even the gods will commend her for that, but do not allow her to burn herself out, and he closed his eyes, thinking. but there was no prophecy, no interpretations, just the truth of any relationship: you must support her if you wish to marry her.

rökkur opened his eyes, scarlet hues friendly, almost humorous, at the king coming to the spirits for guidance on his marriage. the gods do not care for situations between mortals, only that the scales of the world are balanced. but he said it with a gentleness, an appreciation that made their absence feel comfortable. like they were being watched from a safe distance. monitored, but not controlled.

and then a patient tail tap against the ground, a tilted head, a smile upon his face: they all marked the end of his speech, awaiting a response, or perhaps further question, from the king painted in fire and ice. curious as to what he would wonder next.

sólhárr listened in the stillness of the moongrove, the weight of rökkur’s words settling over him like the quiet of freshly fallen snow. his breath escaped in a low hum, thoughtful, contemplative. yes, he rumbled, his voice carrying the warmth of agreement, that is best.

he glanced toward the canopy above, where the máni gazed down upon them, steadfast and watchful. the gods were distant, rökkur said, and yet their influence lingered in the spaces between choices and consequences. sólhárr nodded, feeling the truth in the lorekeeper’s words.

she carries much, my callyope, he admitted, his voice softer now, a rare vulnerability threading through the usual strength. i see her devotion. it burns bright. but even the strongest flames can be smothered if not tended. his gaze flickered back to rökkur, and a faint smile curved his lips. your counsel is well-taken, seiðmaður.

there was no shame in seeking guidance, not for matters of the spirit, nor for those of the heart. he considered rökkur’s humor with a glint of his own, the corners of his eyes crinkling ever so slightly. perhaps the gods care not for the squabbles of mortals, he mused, but balance begins in small places, does it not?

sólhárr stepped back then, his tail swaying once in quiet gratitude. i will speak with her. thank you, rökkur, he said, his tone resolute, though the edges held a note of appreciation for the seiðmaður. you have given me much to think on.

exit sólhárr

trade: spiritualist

he spoke of callyope, his wife, the true anda-talari of forneskja. he nodded at sólhárr's words, a regurgitation of what rökkur had interpreted. his counsel was well taken, the king confirmed, and so the sögumaðr dipped his head: i am glad to be of service.

and he was right. the gods did not pertain to their conflicts, but mortals could make peace amongst themselves with the infinite wisdoms as their catalyst for change. i believe it so. the faith-man agreed. and he watched as the king moved away, satisfied with his reading. a quiet nod, before he, too, would turn back to the heart.

fade!