Neverwinter Forest sleep of the sword

Fjall was moved as much as he wanted to be moved. He heard and felt what he wanted to hear and feel. And when there was an abeyance of this perceived force, he missed it terribly–

But the voice reached him again! And even though it was angry, he was relieved to hear it.

Him.

The windsong became a shout and a tantrum, and Fjall became small before it, lowering himself to a grovel. He looked to the way the mist parted, and then looked up helplessly.

I do not know the way, my Maker, he said softly into the banshee wind. He need not raise his voice. Please, I pray. Show me. Tell me.

Subjugate me!

His body tensed as he felt its immortal coils.

Know me as your subject. This body is yours!

He felt brave – open – before this spirit beast like no other. His lip did not quiver when he thought to speak, and his resolve did not waver as he thought of Him.

I will serve you.

He would worship the valleys, the mountains, the rivers, the earth, and all of the life upon it, if it meant appeasing this spirit enveloping him now.

Where must I go–

what must I do?