Neverwinter Forest It's fare thee well

She still healed from the mark of claw upon her foreleg, though she was tough, always tough. She could put weight back on it, and was eager to do so, reinjury be damned. 

No no, Pangur was lucky. She'd be fine and even if she wouldn't, she would in the end. She kept that carved rune wound into the ruff of golden fur, sap held it close; the totem of her luck, the spirit of Móðir, always close.

She was surprised to hear that one had learned her name in the short while she'd been with them, a testament to the hospitality of Forneskja. Hárkonungr had said she must earn her place here, of which she intended to do. To not learn from the others here would have been a waste of the time, so healing be damned, Pangur was quick to rise to her feet and meet the challenge with a glee unmatched. Ja! I would love to join you. I will come to spar!

Not a fighter, she did not want to be a fighter, nor ever felt that the call for violence was one meant for her ears.

But the gods were closer here, this much she had determined in her nightly walks, in the times she'd spent in prayer beneath their heart tree. 

It was a place worth defending, for that, even Pangur would pick up the metaphorical sword.