Deepwood Weald in my world,

sólhárr’s gaze softened as he thought of her, the white moon woman who haunted his dreams as much as she brightened his path. his voice, though rough, carried the warmth of reverence.

my seiðkona, he began, his words slow, as if savoring the weight of each syllable, is like the night sky on the coldest winter—pure and unyielding, yet welcoming in her light. his eyes glinted, lost momentarily in the vision of her. she moves as the moon does, steady, silent, and her gaze… it sees into the marrow of a man, stripping away his pretenses.

he paused, almost as if catching himself, then chuckled softly, a rare sound. callyope, she is called. she binds my spirit as only a seiðkona can, though it is no trap but a tether i hold with pride.

he turned back to her, watching her expression with gentle curiosity. i would walk through any fog, any thunderstorm, for even a glimpse of her.