Neverwinter Forest dannsair sìthiche

AW, but attn for @Solharr

“Cho bòidheach,” she murmured—breathy words misting in the cold evening air before her as gleaming gold eyes took in the regal serenity of the forest. Cinnamon tipped forepaw traced along the moss and fallen brown leaves—the invisible line to a place that was home to others.

The thrum in her heart reverberated through her limbs—as if a pull given—and her nose lifted, scenting the air, eyes roving as if one were appreciating a masterpiece.

Slowly, she trailed back, tail sweeping against the gentle curve of a flank, though her eyes did not leave the path of border ways—soon, the twinkling of starnight would illuminate the evergreen treetops—but Reilly had a feeling the wolves of this chosen home would find her before then.

sólhárr approached, his movements deliberate and quiet as he emerged from the shadows of the evergreens. the evening air carried the faintest trace of the woman’s scent—soft, unthreatening, but unfamiliar. golden eyes flickered over her pale cream and ginger-dappled form, and he noted her poised stance, her sungold eyes reflecting the muted light of the forest.

you’re standing at the edge of forneskja, his deep voice rumbled, low but without hostility. he tilted his head, taking in her graceful demeanor, the air of something unspoken about her presence. what brings you to our borders?

he didn’t draw closer yet, his stance open but commanding, curiosity evident in the subtle lift of a brow. there was a regal calmness in her gaze, something that tugged faintly at his own instinctual awareness.

Pretty, indeed.

Not the brusque man that did happened upon her—the chiselled form that rivaled a mountain could not be defined with such a dainty word—but the eyes that cast upon her, that was something that sparked a gleaming ember in her own.

He was hardened. His voice a reverberation that once more reminded her of the looming mountains to the west of them. But he was not harsh—not yet.

Demurely, she dipped her muzzle lower, though her eyes did not study him for so long, not without searching the forest he guarded with a trace of longing. “Winter,” she crooned candidly, her voice like smoke. “I seek a home for the winter months, at the least. But your forest—it speaks to me.” She tilts her head, bright eyes darting back to him. “Does it speak to you, as well, man of Forneskja?”

sólhárr's brow arched higher, his curiosity sharpening as he took in the woman’s words. the forest’s voice—it was a claim not many dared to make, but her tone held conviction, a thread of something more beneath her polished exterior. he let her question linger in the crisp morning air, his ruby eyes narrowing as he considered her.

the forest speaks, he rumbled, the depth of his voice rolling like distant thunder. to those who listen. to those who seek. he took a deliberate step closer, his presence steady, unwavering. do you listen, then? do you seek?

his gaze flicked to her slender form, noting the graceful lines and the ember in her gaze. can you hunt, mend, pray? his voice was slow, measured, carrying the weight of something old and unyielding. spirits linger, guiding, testing. if it speaks to you, what does it say?

The mountain loomed closer to her—his words low in the stolen dusk light. Her muzzle lifted—higher—higher—not a challenge of the dominance that exuded from him but to tilt her chin and throat fully to him, should he wish to explore more in garnered trust.

“Creideamh sí,” she returned, velvet voice just above a whisper. “The Sidhe bless these woods.  That is what my people would call them, but what of yours?” She says this—eyes tracing the sky as it darkened, wondering if the hovering man dare come closer. “They will need gifts to appease them. Milk from mothers—meat from hunters.”

She gave a soft hm, ears sliding deftly back to a fair crown. “You’ve many questions for me. I seek to listen. I seek for knowledge. I hunt. I pray.” A pause, and then a curl of her lips. “My mending abilities are rudimentary.”

But again, she sought knowledge, in whatever form it was offered.

cameo unless summoned closer!

she is there.

her heart thumped heavy in her chest. her first thought was that a spirit had come. the ginger sweeping over pale colors. radiant eyes, pools of honey.

she tried not to think that ariadne did not look like this anymore. she would never hold this beauty in flesh again.

only spirit, only memory.

her gaze lingered, long and unwavering. she soaked in the scene from a safe distance. so very inclined to return herself back to heimtré, to the work of pelts and the soft utterance of song.

she waits.

sólhárr stood steady, his molten gaze resting on the slight woman before him. her reverence for the woods mirrored his own, though their tongues gave different names to the spirits they revered. he tipped his head, a spark of curiosity lighting his features.

they have many names, he began, his voice a low rumble. disir, nornir, vættir. the spirits here are old, their stories older still. his gaze drifted briefly toward the towering trees surrounding them, as though he felt their presence in the very air.

he returned his focus to her. i am sólhárr, hárkonungr of forneskja. your words hold truth—these spirits are not appeased easily. my seiðkona, his voice softened slightly, a warmth slipping into his tone at the mention of @Callyope, she understands them better than i do. she is close, near heimtré.

he paused, then lifted his muzzle, letting out a short call that echoed through the trees. he knew his seiðkona would hear and come swiftly. lowering his head, he returned his attention to the woman. you seek knowledge and offer skill. we will see if the spirits find favor with you. 

if seiðkona, favors you.

“Your words—they are beautiful,” she murmured, her eyes closing now against the warm glow of the sky. She did not fully understand what he meant, and that thrilled her the most—but it was easy to see, the reverence he used with the word seiðkona, this was a beloved.

A mothers milk, soon to be, surely, to delight the spirits.

His song called for her—she felt a shiver of delight course along her spine. The song of their people, no matter the language—never wavered or changed. Kindred.

Finally, her muzzle tipped down once more, and her eyes scanned the forests, waiting to see the what had befallen a mountain that it softened its great expanse.

for the first time, she almost wished she had not been pulled closer.

yet she thinks of all the times her mother has grieved or been busied by thoughts, feelings, or actions. there was no breaks for her, was there? if a moonwoman daughter could not carry on while the thoughts of the past floated within her mind, then what did she have?

callyope settled her features into something neutral.

foxfur on her shoulders, amber eyes fixed upon the woman closer now. looking for something that her eyes might never see.

i am seiðkona, for this moment she skips over a name. you have met hárkonungr. she did not hide her warmth in her gaze. a loving look upon him for a moment, before she is looking at the woman again.

what calls you here? what makes you seek me?

it is curiosity, not judgement, that laces her second question.

sólhárr watched his elska step forward with the poise and grace he had come to admire, her voice steady as she addressed the stranger. her fox furs shifted gently as she moved, catching his eye, and with a quiet reverence, he let his nose brush against the softness of them. it was a gesture that spoke volumes without words—a grounding touch, an unspoken affirmation of his love and pride.

his gaze shifted to the woman before them, her murmured reverence for their words lingering in the air like the last notes of a fading melody. he remained silent for a moment, letting callyope's questions stand without interruption. her tone was gentle yet pointed, as it so often was—a balance of compassion and curiosity that sólhárr knew would draw out the truth.

seiðkona asks well, he added after a breath, his voice a deep rumble. the forest calls many, but it is not all who answer rightly.

his amber eyes, sharp yet not unkind, lingered on the stranger, waiting. he could feel the steady presence of callyope beside him, a warmth that reminded him this was not only his decision to make. together, they would decide if this woman’s spirit belonged among their own.

Rustic foxfur drapes over a pelt of splendid ivory and pointed golden eyes that all but channel a demure warmth that has all but wrapped Reilly into an embracing hug. She practically preens—but maintains herself—her own eyes bright and inquisitive as they travel over the pair, excitement fluttering in her breast.

“Your forest—your home,” she offers the woman, a slender muzzle sweeping lower now in the primal act of acceptance ingrained within themselves. “I felt its pull—but I have traveled away from my home with the hope of gaining knowledge. To learn of so many others—to see what the spirits demand of me, and what my place might be.”

She had promised the man skills—she had spoken her desire to appease the fae—he remained uncertain if she was one who fit amongst them. When she looked upon them, she saw promise—the beginning of new.

It was this that now made her question the pull she spoke of—had she been wrong? This was why she must forage a new path—whatever wavering doubt that flickered through her mind was set upon endurance.

she was intrigued.

her curiosity fed by the woman's words. a spirit walk. somehow it had led the woman here and callyope felt a warmth in her chest, slowly spreading.

if spirits have told you to learn, they have guided you right. a step forward now. to look closer, to welcome the woman. the land here is rich in history and tradition. new and old. so much! the learning could last lifetimes!

i would welcome you to learn in my circle, in these woods.

elska has spoken.

sólhárr didn't need more incentive. he had no use of the wandering females— his own had been perched under his watchful gaze, the desire to have another would never cross his mind.

but callyope on the other hand...

her circle. how much could a man gloat and preen his feathers with pride? here, she was forging her own path. a destiny curated by lífbjörg herself. a tapestry would be weaved in their honor, reed by reed.

his woman willed it.

then it will be. forneskja welcomes you, he spoke firm. your name?