Hideaway Strath in death's shadow

Qvasir walked alongside the shadow-clad woman, his pale eyes occasionally flicking toward her as she kept pace despite her limp. There was a silent resilience in her movement, an unwillingness to yield to pain. It didn’t escape his notice, nor did the haunting air she carried—the skull-like marking and piercing marigold eyes casting her in a stark, almost otherworldly light.

Her question broke the silence, pulling his gaze back to her as she addressed him with a mixture of intrigue and guardedness. He allowed himself a small, faintly amused smile, the expression a fleeting thing that barely touched his face.

Qvasir, he replied evenly, his voice calm but with a certain weight to it, as though the name itself carried its own burden. It’s what they called me where I’m from, though I’ve heard many prefer stranger. His tone hinted at dry humor, but his pale eyes remained steady on hers.

He let the quiet settle between them for a moment before tilting his head slightly, studying her. And you? he asked, though there was no urgency in his tone, only a faint curiosity. What name does the shadow answer to?