Neverwinter Forest Moss

Tawny ears flick to the baritone hum of Hárkonungr's voice, his steps brushing through the dew-covered grass of new spring. He joins her in the heart of the woods, she slows her pace to fall in with his own. He speaks of silence and there is no disagreement that Pangur can make.
The ghost of Seiðkona was a whisper on the wind, woven through the roots of the forest and haunting the grove they'd made their own.
Yes, it is quiet. Far too quiet. I can sing if you like. She offers, a teasing lilt to her tone as she lets her tail flick against the brush.
But Pangur is not oblivious, she knows his meaning, and lets her shoulders roll beneath the golden fur of her scruff. ..It has been. It was once so lively here. She lets her words trail as memories of the wedding dance across her mind, a sadness lingering in the air.
Her attention falls back to Solharr, how the turmoil brewed beneath a stoic display, his leadership a burden on top of it all; she admired him for it. How have you been? She asks now, even if she knows the answer is obvious.