Neverwinter Forest there's no crowds in the street,

though he cannot see the churning of thoughts within her mind, the way they lap upon her consciousness like hungry waves upon a black, rocky shore, he can feel the way in which she tenses, though her face remains calm, the cool waters of a dark ocean, there is something festering. something unknown. something that the very nature of the lorekeeper calls for him to soothe, to relinquish her of the weight that so clearly sat upon her shoulders, and yet it did not make her fall, did not drag her down. rather, her steps were light, as if she were hardly tethered to this earth and to the snows beneath them.

and when he looked at the woman before him, bathed in the hues of clouds that gathered rain, of the snowy peaks of mountain tops, of the rocks that laid upon a beaches shore, he did not see læknir, nor shieldmaiden, nor daughter of the dragons bay. simply, he saw iruna uthafskari, an embodiment in which all the parts of her were whole, and he did not turn his gaze away. rokkur did not look away from frosted glaciers, her nose returning the motion of his own, and the foundations for a bond slowly lay themselves flat upon the earth. we are similar in that way, moon-guardian said with a smile.

she had moved her gaze away, tries to trudge forwards when he speaks, and so it is with a careful nudge of his muzzle against her cheek that he stops her, draws her face back towards him, gentle in his adjustment, non-forcing, and yet quite clearly wishing for her eye-contact, for her to be still in this moment where they may speak without the presence of anyone else within these woods. for they are alone, and were given the opportunity to be vulnerable in the presence of one another: we do not take the time to pray for ourselves, only for that of forneskja, for the gods that we revere, he begun. but, iruna, our most basic form of prayer is the one in which we reaffirm our connection, and that is a ritual that is wholly from us, surrounding us and reaching, grasping from our very beings, and he would search her face as he spoke, wishing only to be understood by the woman before him. to be heard, acknowledged, even.

it is not selfish, nor cruel to pray for the futures, for the wellbeing of our own lives, for if we are lost, who will share prayer with the rest of our peoples? we may be conduits for the gods and their whispers, their paths and their tasks that they bestow upon us, but to be such conduits we are also granted the gift of asking them of favours, of bestowing upon them our hopes and our dreams, he took a breath, then, passion flowing like poetry from his maw, his breath warm upon the woman who hardly stood apart from him. close enough that they may envelop eachother, may become one in what would merely be the blink of an eye. of an icy, cold, blue eye, of which both he stared within, though his gaze was warm, alive with scarlet embers. pray for yourself, iruna, for you deserve it. perhaps they will give you both what you need ...

a single breath. and what you want.