Firestone Hot Springs this will never end

Her apology was brushed away with a shake of his head, encouraging the the truncated version of his name. Stjör. He had gone by it before, when he had been a boy, and he could go by it again now that he was a man. Truthfully, he did not mind, and found it would likely be easier than teaching her his full name. Perhaps in time, unless this was to be their only stefnumót.

An emotion whispered through him as he watched her eyes turn to glass, an almost holy shine coming from them as they caught the reflection of moonlight. He might have continued to stare, had she not said words that he did not quite grasp. While the Nord understood whatever she had said was good, the nuances were lost on him, and he gave her a rather perplexed look.

Solpallur would have laughed, he thought, at Stjornuati being called kind and beautiful. An ear flickered as he made attempts to follow what she said, until one question stood out to him. Norður. North. Far North.

On a whim, the distance between them shrunk, his taller form drawing near so that his tongue could sweep across the soft plush of her cheek, an attempt to help her clear what sadness he could from her. Proud, He said again, looking down at her. They are proud. While he did not know who it was that she had lost, the scars that graced her visage told a story of a fight, and those who went down fighting feasted in their time-after. This, he knew, for his mother had told him.