Neverwinter Forest where the moon sets

on my knees thanking you for this

trade: spiritualist

the guardian's name was called, and so he would answer.

he was ducked down behind the boulder, carefully nudging at the earth from which the moonflowers grew. picking away pests and crushing them beneath his claws, allowing pollinators to remain so that the flowers may grow tall, thick around the base of the stone. and at the voice of his king, he moved aside, tall and well-muscled, silver underneath the light of the máni. his lady.

yes, sólhárr? he returned, eyes wide, red and curious. like shining rubies within a dark cave, framed by the shadow that his brow bone casted upon his face. defined. almost stoic. though his demeanor practically shone, an aura that surrounded him like a bright, holy light. repurposed to be of service to the moongrove. to enjoy his work. to tell his stories. and he wondered if that was what the hárkonungr sought.

a moment of silence. the soft hum of the grove, lively with critters that moved beneath the grasses, nocturnal, blessed. another word, or six. how may i be of assisstance?

he wondered, then, if it was wisdom that the king desired.