Broken Antler Fen my demeanor tends to disappoint

Qvasir watched as she collapsed, her trembling frame a stark contrast to the resolute effort she’d just displayed. He remained quiet for a moment, his golden gaze steady as it lingered on her, taking in the weariness that weighed her down.

When she spoke of the gods, his expression flickered—barely. A faint shadow of skepticism crossed his face before his usual composure returned. You don’t owe me thanks, he said simply, his voice low and even, without indulgence or condescension.

He stepped back slightly, giving her space, his gaze briefly sweeping the horizon before returning to her. Rest if you need to, he added after a pause, keeping his tone practical. It wasn’t belief or divine favor that had brought her here, after all—it was effort, hers and his.