Stone Circle clean the stables of king augeas

They arrive seemingly every week, these travel-worn souls on the doorstep with their minds full of nothing but rest, convalescing new wounds and old ones. Or perhaps a ‘sudden predisposition’ for the spirits that attend the seer stones.

Carved in her own image, she supposes it’s with communion she should greet this country’s downtrodden; tricky, but meaning no harm. No more than the wily thief who haunts her steps here.

Quiet is a remnant so far gone, not even when the moon hangs in half-sphere above the head of a silvering visitor, who at least is respectful enough to draw room between himself and their scentposts as he seeks for them.

She will draw forth with the kind of wariness she’s learned is due to strangers, particularly one so dark and lofty in the cut of night light, and whose piercing cerulean stare is about all she can make of him. She appraises him with her own silver leer, tracing up to his ears and back down before flicking her tail cautiously.

“State your business with Kvarsheim.”