Moonstone Quarry hits the six, and it's summer

trade: spiritualist

a voice called from the rim, and rökkur turned slowly, startled, though such a feeling was not presented outwardly. instead, his range of movement was wide, looking back to the stranger with a tall stance and studious eyes, scarlet and analytical. rökkur did not reply.

instead, he watched the man descend, rather awkwardly, down the face of the quarry, shaking off his pelt and then approaching. the shadow took a step back when he did, unwilling to be dirtied. almost offended at the intrusion, the interruption of his worship, but his face was placid. calm. shielding his innermost thoughts; feelings.

the voice of the man was low and, what rökkur thought to be, respectful of the holiness that surrounded him. he dipped his head: i did not think i would find myself here, either, he agreed, a vagueness lilting on his tongue. but an explanation was to follow, reverent and telling of his beliefs: not until the light guided me. he looked up.

eyes settled on the moon that shone from above, light painting each wall of the crater, framed by its rim. pools glimmered as its glow refracted within the water. a place that whispered of the máni and her stories. he looked back to the stranger, then. but his scent was familiar. you smell of forneskja. he observed.

a tone of disapproval followed, though his eyes remained gentle. merciful, almost. frustrated, though not angered. disappointed, though not rageful. instead, a careful question: did you follow me? of which he could assume the answer.