Neverwinter Forest Moss

Pangur is up early, invigorated by touch of spring, the warm glow of the sun urging new flowers up from the dirt, kissing the land that had for so long been buried beneath thick and heavy snow.

There is birdsong in the air, and Pangur pays an idle attention to it, having missed the sweet calls of songbirds in the mornings, and the forest is filled with them today, the celebration of new seasons was one that seemed to transcend the boundaries of species. A smile fell across her features.

The wound beneath her eye had closed now, scarred over and left her with but a hairless streak and a memory, she halts her pace and brings her wrist up to rub at it, the skin still itchy around the edges. At least now she felt a little intimidating.

Scary Pangur.

Her walk is quiet and uneventful, but she does not mind. Contently, Pangur sweeps the perimeter of the forest, eager for a challenge.

She hopes the gods will provide. Of course, she knows they will.

sólhárr had already been moving the forest’s edge when pangur’s steps joined the song of the morning. the rhythm of her gait, light and purposeful, wove into the birdsong with a familiarity that made him turn his head.

he watched her from where he stood between the birches, the gold of sun wrapping her like some chosen thing. she carried the sun with her, too—he’d always thought that. now, with the wound beneath her eye healed and marked in a thin line of memory, she looked no less fierce. no less worthy.

you’re early, he rumbled as he stepped into her path, a quiet thunder to his voice—worn, warm. his gaze dipped to the healed scar and lingered there for a breath. he didn’t ask about it, didn’t need to. she wore it like she did everything else—with pride.

he looked past her to the trees, scenting faint traces of elk, hare, pine. but it was her presence that pulled his attention back.

forest’s quiet, he added, tone low. too quiet.

Tawny ears flick to the baritone hum of Hárkonungr's voice, his steps brushing through the dew-covered grass of new spring. He joins her in the heart of the woods, she slows her pace to fall in with his own. He speaks of silence and there is no disagreement that Pangur can make.
The ghost of Seiðkona was a whisper on the wind, woven through the roots of the forest and haunting the grove they'd made their own.
Yes, it is quiet. Far too quiet. I can sing if you like. She offers, a teasing lilt to her tone as she lets her tail flick against the brush.
But Pangur is not oblivious, she knows his meaning, and lets her shoulders roll beneath the golden fur of her scruff. ..It has been. It was once so lively here. She lets her words trail as memories of the wedding dance across her mind, a sadness lingering in the air.
Her attention falls back to Solharr, how the turmoil brewed beneath a stoic display, his leadership a burden on top of it all; she admired him for it. How have you been? She asks now, even if she knows the answer is obvious.

his stride slows as he matches her pace, his voice a steady hum in the silence between them.

i would like that, he murmurs, his tone low but sincere. your song would be a welcome sound in this stillness.

he feels the weight of her question settle in, and he looks at her, his amber eyes steady and unflinching. a soft breath escapes him, the weight of everything he carries reflected in the silence that follows.

i am well, he answers, his voice betraying little of the burden he wears. but... how are you, pangur? it seems we both carry more than we show.