Neverwinter Forest there's no crowds in the street,

daughter of the dragons bay, comes her birth-given title, and so the guardian of the moongrove may find himself more understanding of the embers that flicker and ebb beyond a gaze of glaciers. perhaps it was the spirit of such a beast that powered through her, coursed through her golden blood and gave her a fire unmatched by many. to that, he nodded, as if commemorating the land in which she came.

and it was with such a flame that she tested him, now, and though a shame rose through his spine, the thought of countless days and nights spent within his den, unmoving, eating nothing, drinking nothing, he had bathed before he to seek her audience. he had caught himself a hare, soothed his parched throat, and so it was with a smile, though coy, that he answered: starfi hlustanda máni's er aldrei lokið. það er margt að gera fyrir utan að koma saman, þó ég biðst afsökunar á því að hafa ekki hitt þig fyrr.

letting his faith guide him as the light overhead did, he said: það eru margar nætur sem skýin verja hana fyrir augsýn, og á þeim nóttum segja sögurnar, að það verði að vera án bænar né svefns, had it been the result of such sleepless nights, that he was now weary? eins og hvað er bæn eða svefn án leiðsagnar máni?

but it was with dry humour that he said: veturinn er mér hins vegar óvinsamlegur, sama hvað ég greiði eða vilji, a sighs' release, as well as a shake of a dark head.