Neverwinter Forest deepest forest, darkest wood

Day by day, Vairë stagnated.

Moonsong glowed on the distant horizon, and she could not help the bitter thought of where was this for Saltshore? Where was my good luck? It was an easy question. Vairë simply had no luck. She stalled in her life, in her everything, in existence.

She tended her children. She tended her borders. She tended her family. But Vairë’s eyes drifted north, and she found herself drifting. Silence wrapped her shoulders, a funeral shroud for a marriage that did not last long enough to leave bitterness. Rhaegal was gone, she began to believe.

Rhaegal was not coming home, was what she could not say to her children.

She wrapped herself in beaver skin and dipped into the early morning. The warning between moon villages, the man, she knew this. But it did not stop the doe from vanishing into the cursed forest. From her paws taking her to that familiar place.

She stopped in the center of what would have been home, would have been her mother’s village. And she wept bitter tears, because that life was not for her. It was for Fjall, for the children Lótë seemed to care more about than bland looking Vairë. For fawn legged Vairë.

For the broken hearted weaver daughter she left without a word. It was too much to ask.