Neverwinter Forest well, I won't make it out alive

He is looking for @Callyope but AW!

Catamaran had not met the woman that Solharr had ordered him to seek out. Without knowing exactly who she was, he began seeking out the scent that wound most strongly with the hárkonungr's. It brought him deeper into the territory than he was accustomed to traveling, and he began to worry that he might enter the sacred women's space without realizing. This was a rare thing that frightened him, and his hesitance was obvious as he began to circle the territory's depths.

Eventually, he came to a stop, peering into the gloom as if Callyope or else a physical representation of the sacred space's borders might suddenly appear to him.

Swallowing down his nerves, he lifted his head to give a low, inquisitive howl: Is anyone there?

changes, changes, changes.

the world around her is busy and blooming! she cannot help but wonder how every woman before her had ever done it.

they had not done it alone, whispers something unknown.

i am not alone, either, whispered back her own heart.

the silence felt deafening in the moments that followed. the roots of heimtré sought to cradle and yet she knew if she allowed herself to lay among them like a babe, she might not rise for some hours. which meant there was a hefty sense of relief that washed over her when the call came.

quick, long strides bring her closer. through tree and brush cover to where he might better glimpse her.

you called, and she had answered.

standing tall, the image of patience.

It was a large woman who emerged from the depths of Solharr's woods. The bounty hunter's coral gaze traced appreciatively over the length of her legs before he remembered himself and let his eyes drop to the floor between them.

"Yes," he agreed, feeling naked without any honorific with which to address her. But it was instantly more comfortable than his time here had been thus far. Here was the woman who commanded them, and she stood as tall as he in this forest of men. Supplication came easily to him, though it showed only in the subtle dip of his head.

"The hárkonungr instructed me to seek your aid," he told her, his voice hushed and respectful. "There is a woman here with a broken leg. He said that you would pray for her."

It rankled him to be involved in any sort of prayer, but this had been a direct order from Solharr. Now, he would receive orders far more willingly from Callyope. This, at least, was his pleasure.

a broken leg.

the woman might very well need more than prayer. healing was the birthright of any moonwoman daughter and yet she had never managed such a serious thing.

the look upon her face is only thoughtful, contemplative of what had been brought for her.

how did this come to be?

it was her position that allowed her to question it. not some meek woman confined only to shadows and devout whispers. she must know all that she could before she dared utter prayers.

It did not occur to him that the bites littering his face might be ominous, given the situation. After all, he hadn't caused the girl undue harm, and he certainly hadn't broken her leg. But, because he did not know the whole story, his answer came after a slight pause.

"She was in a fight," he said, sure of this even if he did not know all the details. And he knew that, "She lost. But she is still young. She will improve."

Even with a broken leg, he thought. Perhaps she would never become quite the killer she hoped, but he believed she would be deadly again given them.

At no point did he lift his eyes to Callyope's face.

she was not sure which emotion rippled beneath her thoughtfulness.

upset? concern?

it mattered not, she steadied herself all the same. a soft inhale through her nose, a gateway for the scents he carried. as if she might pry apart all his secrets from that alone! no such thing would occur — for better or worse.

and who heals her body while i tend her spirit?

no one she partially expected to hear.

perhaps she could be pleasantly surprised, wouldn't that be nice?

The question drew a flicker of unease from the bounty hunter. He stole a glance at her face, uncertain as to whether or not this was a trick question. He let his gaze drop once more.

"Her body is strong, Aralez," he replied, his tone cautious as he attempted to divine the answer from the shapes in the pine needles beneath their paws. And then, still grasping at straws, "I will tend to her," he said with certainty. Whatever she needed, he would do his best to provide.

For so long as she endured him, at least.

Aralez.

seiðkona.

her voice steady, an aura of warmth coming to her now.

this man gave his respects. he offered himself to tend to this woman. if the hárkonungr had sent him to her, then it meant he did not fret over this one.

i will sing for her spirit, for her mending. a broken limb will take much patience. i will deliver things for her wellbeing into your care.

in that way she might be able to see the woman, see what truly was occurring. while the man would also be allowed to keep his own space, do his own work.

so she'd sing for a spirit that might become restless from so much patience.

"Seiðkona," he corrected himself, contrite.

Singing was more palatable than praying, even if — in this case — they were functionally the same. His mother and his aunts and his grandmother had always asked his father to sing when he visited. They had their own songs, though most were short and bawdy, and had often encouraged him to learn the longer, sweeter ballads that the panther liked to sing. Catamaran just didn't have the voice for it. Or maybe he did, but his throat always closed when he tried to make those sounds.

He wondered what this healing song would sound like. He wondered what sort of things Callyope thought necessary for his woman's wellbeing.

"Thank you, seiðkona," he murmured, his head bowing even further in physical supplication. But he stole another glance at her, coral gaze bright and calculating upon the spirit woman. "What can I bring to you for this?"

she liked him.

respectful, orderly. he seemed to not fuss back at her directions. he even so much as asked what she might need for these things!

a very brief smile.

when you hunt, do not ruin the pelt of your prey. bring it to me. the uses for it are plenty when i have prepared it. she informed him now, a glimmer in her gaze now too.

and bring me the name of this healing woman.

It was easier for him to sense when he'd earned the favor of a woman than a man. Perhaps only because this had happened more often. It did not lead him to relax in her presence, however. Instead, he allowed more of his senses to open, as if a smile had given him leave to assess her.

And though, this time, he truly tried, he still could not gentle the mean slit of his eyes.

"Storm Rising on the Eastern Sea," he said. Without his permission, a tiny thread of reverence worked its way into his voice. When he heard it, he thoroughly exorcised it before speaking again: "Seastorm. She is from a pack called Glass Cove. They give strange names, there." And they kidnap children. She was probably kidnapped.

Something urged him to say so. He trusted women to protect each other more than he trusted men to take pity on them. For now, however, he held his tongue. He was still not sure about this Callyope.

"Just the pelts?" he asked, seeking clarification. He would bring her kills directly, if she asked, but he was almost certain that was not what she desired.

it was not so strange to her, she thought. yet she did not say this for his ears. instead she only held it close to her heart.

she held this full name even closer.

a ghost of her smile lingered. warm and genuine. just the pelts. the meat must be for her and her healing. if he was to provide for this woman and her injury, then he must already know this! yet she said it so that it might be brought into existence between them both.

it is appreciated that you have come to me with these words.

Catamaran dipped his head in thanks and acknowledgement. He was not yet overworked, but this concession gave him space to take on other tasks, if needed. He was glad that Callyope seemed interested in her health more than her usefulness — though that, he supposed, might just be pragmatism.

He sensed the conversation coming to an end, but something that had been lingering at the back of his mind was brought back to the forefront. Her syntax was different than what he tended to hear in these parts. Different even from Solharr and Luhtar's — not that he thought much of Luhtar's grasp on the common tongue.

"You speak another language," he posited, hesitant because he was not sure if he would be allowed to pry. "Different than Solharr."