Neverwinter Forest there's no crowds in the street,

íruna holds his scarlet gaze, her lavender eyes steady, but something sharp stirs behind them. her thoughts drift momentarily—to sólhárr’s voice, low and teasing, the smirk on his lips as he reminded her of the gods’ will. of the path they supposedly had laid before her.

the path that seemed to end at his side.

ég er írúna úthafskari, dóttir drákensvágr. she dips her head slightly in acknowledgment of his words, her tail flicking behind her. she does not doubt the weight of his words, his name. her head lifts, and she lays icy eyes upon scarlet hues, and then there is warmth that spreads from lip to lip.

ek veit hver þú ert, sögumaðr. orð þín og speki hafa náð margra eyrum; samt ekki minn, hm? there lays implication within her words, thinly veiled. perhaps testing the man, poking at the thick walls of his resolve to ask, simply, why he has not sought her out before now.

was the shieldmaiden, daughter from dragon's bay, not worthy of rökkur's eye? and somehow, now, she begins to grow disdain in her heart. begrudging for the man. he has spoken with many, many for the læknir to know of him in great detail, whisperings from the women of callyope's circle—and has left her waiting. perhaps he was simply intimidated by her. that is enough to cool her fiery spittle, and instead produce pride in her dragoness heart.