Deepwood Weald in my world,

sólhárr’s eyes softened at her words, the shadow of a smile crossing his features as he considered callyope. a dream, he echoed, a warmth slipping into his tone. aye, that she is—a fierce one, but gentle in her own way. you see her in the mist before you see her in the flesh. he knew that his elska carried a spirit not bound by tradition alone but woven with the wildness of her own making. her name was hers alone, a piece of a life that belonged only to her.

callyope is not of our people, he admitted, a note of pride flickering in his voice. she brings with her the wisdom of a far land, one where tradition takes a different shape. he tilted his head slightly, catching yngvi’s eye, sensing her curiosity. forneskja doesn’t fear the new, he added, a glint of mischief dancing behind his steady gaze. we’re a land of roots, but we don’t deny the branches that stretch toward other skies.

he stepped closer, his gaze holding hers. you’ll see, in time. our forneskja is stronger for the ways we walk alongside the past and the new.