Firestone Hot Springs 'cause i'm through, when the two

Y’var’la tilted her head at his correction, the faintest flicker of amusement playing at the corners of her mouth. Our sanctuary. The words were weighty, spoken with such ease, claiming the land with an understated conviction she could respect. Rökkur, he’d said—his name clipped and sure, carrying none of the gilded edge hers had. It suited him, she thought, simple but sturdy, like the stones that bordered the steaming pools.

The woman hummed to his offer, though the steam brushing her fur hinted that the warmth was tempting. She stepped closer, testing the space he had left her, one paw hovering at the water’s edge before pulling back. For now, she stayed on the basin’s rim, the sharp tang of sulfur mingling with the clean scent of steam in her lungs.

Her olive gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, her appraisal subtle but thorough. At his question, she raised a brow, the hum of curiosity behind his tone not lost on her. “Recruited?” she repeated, the word twisting in her mouth like something foreign. “I wouldn’t quite call it that.” She shifted her weight, the heat from the pools soaking into her paws even from the edge. “More in a 'trial phase', really. 'Till the seiðkona says otherwise.”

Her gaze flicked to his, unflinching as she added, “And you? How long have you served Forneskja? You seem… settled.” The faintest smirk tugged at her lips, her tone somewhere between probing and playful.