Deepwood Weald in my world,

@Yngvi

he moved steadily along the borders, his paws pressing down into the soft earth as he left his mark on each tree and stone along the way. it was early, the morning mist still clinging to the forest floor, shrouding his path in a muted haze. he was focused, his senses sharp as he reinforced the boundaries of forneskja, keeping watch over the land that had become his duty, his purpose.

but as he reached a break in the trees, something drifted past him on the breeze—a scent, light and unmistakably feminine. he paused, nostrils flaring, catching the faint trace. his gaze narrowed with intrigue, his stance shifting as curiosity got the better of him. whoever she was, she wasn’t far.

without hesitation, sólhárr veered from his usual path, his paws carrying him quietly through the underbrush. the scent grew stronger as he moved deeper into the woods, and he felt a spark of anticipation, wondering if she was passing through or if she had come with intention. he kept his steps light, his presence masked in the mist, as he closed in, hoping to catch sight of her before she became aware of his approach.

a faery led only by instinct, what little she had of them anyways.
norns have yet to answer her prayers asking where she had been led, so for now she is led only by faith. and knowing, for sure, there is no home to return to.

mist engulfs her, surrounds her and — if her ears didnt fail her — whispers to her. "turn back", it giggles. it carressed her with the tenderness she imagined her mother would've. perhaps the spirits found amusement in a girl stupid enough to travel alone, abandoned by the norns and thus her people.

the mellowed priestess was unaware, though, that she was not alone. not until the stench of man festered in her nose that it became impossible for her to ignore.

hello? she searched through whisps of the mist, batting them aside in hopes of uncovering whoever it was that she shared this space with.

sólhárr stood silently in the mist, watching her, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he observed the soft, almost otherworldly way she moved. she was delicate, drifting through the haze like a creature born of fog and silence, and yet something about her held an edge—a strength tempered by the way she moved, as if held aloft by faith alone. he admired that; faith was something to be tested, sharpened, proven.

when her voice broke the quiet, soft but searching, sólhárr let himself step forward, emerging from the shadows of the mist with a deliberate slowness. you walk in strange lands, he murmured, his tone low, almost a rumble in the thick, misty air.

his gaze held hers steadily, an intense but respectful interest gleaming beneath his composed exterior. these woods aren’t often kind to those wandering alone, he continued, voice softened by the faintest hint of warmth, a silent acknowledgement of the spirit he sensed in her.

sólhárr, he offered by way of introduction, inclining his head. and you? what brings you here, to forneskja?

dull golden fur parted through the cold mist. she held still, watched as the man's figure revealed itself to her. soon, her eyes met his, and she stared deep as he spoke — the same rugged accent of her people. perhaps the norns hadn't abandoned her entirely. whatever trickster wisp that hid within the mist retreated, and yngvi was left only with the viking named sólhárr

yngvi eklund. spirit daughter of urðr.. she bowed her head, pinned by his eyes. ..once of miofell, before the norns punished my town for their hubris.
or perhaps she felt the eyes of her mother, watching as her daughter spoke ill of the town she failed.
i haven't encountered danger for i have not strayed from the path i'd been given.. finally, the girl's violet eyes lift from the dirt to the man.
now i believe it was to bring me here.. sir. each word came breathless, anxious to be heard and believed. to your forneskja.

sólhárr’s gaze roamed over her, noting the rich auburn of her coat, patterned like the marks of a badger—a striking blend of strength and refinement. her violet eyes were a rare, delicate beauty, softened further by the pale flowers woven through her fur. she bore a lineage that he recognized as powerful, good blood that flowed from the spirit daughter of urðr herself. pride stirred in him, as he thought of what this meant for his forneskja, for the roots they were planting, for the future they were forging.

yngvi eklund, he murmured, savoring the sound of her name, letting it settle with a sense of respect. her journey to him was no accident; there was purpose, guided by something beyond them both. a fine bloodline you carry—urðr’s spirit lives within you, he added, admiration in his tone. your journey is no small thing. forneskja welcomes those who walk with destiny in their steps.

he nodded, an approving smile hinting at the corners of his mouth. my seiðkona will be pleased, he continued, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. she’s long awaited a spirit daughter to walk beside her, to learn and to grow. sólhárr could already picture his elska, her joy at a young soul of such promise entering the fold, another thread to be woven into the fabric of their land’s magic.

he inclined his head slightly, his voice softened with solemnity. forneskja was meant for those like you, who have seen loss yet still walk with purpose. come, he gestured, turning back toward the heart of his lands. your path lies here now. let us honor the journey that has brought you.

ah.

guilt stirred within her.
it mixed with joy, with bashfulness. she was a stranger to praise. a smile curled her lips and warmth brushed her cheek, the man a guide through the fog. into this forneskja of his.
thank you. thank you, thank you so much. she could weep, but instead the russet badger followed closely in his footsteps.

your seiðkona.. who is she? this is a chance to learn again; to learn more.
she couldn't afford to repeat the same mistake again.
eyes still bore into her back.

sólhárr’s gaze softened as he thought of her, the white moon woman who haunted his dreams as much as she brightened his path. his voice, though rough, carried the warmth of reverence.

my seiðkona, he began, his words slow, as if savoring the weight of each syllable, is like the night sky on the coldest winter—pure and unyielding, yet welcoming in her light. his eyes glinted, lost momentarily in the vision of her. she moves as the moon does, steady, silent, and her gaze… it sees into the marrow of a man, stripping away his pretenses.

he paused, almost as if catching himself, then chuckled softly, a rare sound. callyope, she is called. she binds my spirit as only a seiðkona can, though it is no trap but a tether i hold with pride.

he turned back to her, watching her expression with gentle curiosity. i would walk through any fog, any thunderstorm, for even a glimpse of her.

upon her question, the man paints a portrait of his callyope. she could imagine now, the same reverence that her father held towards her mother.

to witness love so deep, yngvi had to smile. even if there was a hint of a nastier taste at the tip of her tongue. perhaps she should've asked a different question had it not been for the glimpse into the future it provided.
ah~ she sounds like a dream. she cooed.
but that is not a name of our people.. not one i recall. a woman of a different people, perhaps? a less conservative town, then. one less hung up on tradition. or at least willing to skip around its edges.

sólhárr’s eyes softened at her words, the shadow of a smile crossing his features as he considered callyope. a dream, he echoed, a warmth slipping into his tone. aye, that she is—a fierce one, but gentle in her own way. you see her in the mist before you see her in the flesh. he knew that his elska carried a spirit not bound by tradition alone but woven with the wildness of her own making. her name was hers alone, a piece of a life that belonged only to her.

callyope is not of our people, he admitted, a note of pride flickering in his voice. she brings with her the wisdom of a far land, one where tradition takes a different shape. he tilted his head slightly, catching yngvi’s eye, sensing her curiosity. forneskja doesn’t fear the new, he added, a glint of mischief dancing behind his steady gaze. we’re a land of roots, but we don’t deny the branches that stretch toward other skies.

he stepped closer, his gaze holding hers. you’ll see, in time. our forneskja is stronger for the ways we walk alongside the past and the new.