Neverwinter Forest well, I won't make it out alive

"Seiðkona," he corrected himself, contrite.

Singing was more palatable than praying, even if — in this case — they were functionally the same. His mother and his aunts and his grandmother had always asked his father to sing when he visited. They had their own songs, though most were short and bawdy, and had often encouraged him to learn the longer, sweeter ballads that the panther liked to sing. Catamaran just didn't have the voice for it. Or maybe he did, but his throat always closed when he tried to make those sounds.

He wondered what this healing song would sound like. He wondered what sort of things Callyope thought necessary for his woman's wellbeing.

"Thank you, seiðkona," he murmured, his head bowing even further in physical supplication. But he stole another glance at her, coral gaze bright and calculating upon the spirit woman. "What can I bring to you for this?"