Firefly Glen there is no prize to perfection,

moonspear. brows pinch for a moment or two as the man mulls over the name in his mind. it seemed vaguely familiar, as if it was on just the tip of his tongue. and then a spark of recognition. before seiðkona had gone missing—a reality that still aches—she had taught him much. 

she had mentioned once, forneskja's neighbors. had spoken with nothing but gentle, amicable truth when referencing them. "ah, you are a neighbor." his hum is low, perhaps more pleasant. he knows nothing much more, other than moonspear are allowed to walk freely amongst forneskja's lands. 

and so, he calms. eyes of alabaster less sharp and calculating, now soften with an edge of curiosity. her title is in a tongue he doesn't recognize, but it matters not. "i am cicero. healer for forneskja." he introduced himself with a formal, fleeting bow of his head. 

his gaze flickers upward—a frown pulling at his lips as the storm clouds begin to roll in. it meant the valley would soon be bathed in mud, thwarting his efforts of foraging. "let us talk somewhere out of the rain?" he motioned toward the treeline with amicable invitation.