Neverwinter Forest you're so art deco,

trade: spiritualist

and so he was bestowed this great gift. rökkur's heart felt heavy with pride, beating within his chest, providing him the lifeblood that had been granted by his goddess when he had been born atop the spire. he met the kings eyes when he had said perhaps it's waiting for one, a clear suggestion. and he did not take it lightly.

when sólhárr stepped forwards, so did he. rather than his paw, his nose met the boulder, the coolness stinging mauve skin. you are right, his voice was low, quiet, as if he was speaking to the earth itself. or a creature that laid deep within it, slumbering, still, under its mothers light. an unworthy name would condemn this place. and he spoke with such conviction. almost unusual for him, should one not truly know him.

a breath, two passed. he looked from the blooms to the king, then. a firm nod. her name is mánilundur, he said. a sense of finality accompanied his words. a holiness that surrounded the grove. she is the moongrove, and i will protect her. respect ran deep within his voice, like sanguine running within a warrior's veins. he would make his den nearby. within the woods, as to not disrespect the glade.

but then there was a gentleness upon his face. do you approve, sólhárr? but part of him knew that even if the king did not favour the name, she would always be mánilundur within his mind, his heart. he was her guardian.