Moonstone Quarry The world that hardens as the harsher winter holds

Aneira stood for a breath in silence, allowing the wind to speak in her place. It tangles through her fur, carried the scent of stone and pine, of him. Her turquoise gaze did not leave the jagged terrain before them, but something in her posture, subtle and veiled, softened at the sound of his voice.
„Even stone can fracture if asked to bear too much,” she murmured, voice as frost threading through still air. Her attention turned to him then, lingering on the hide as it covered the scars on his shoulder. A question plagued her mind, unspoken;
„This place…” she began once more, slower now, testing each word for truth, drawing near his side, her eyes tracing the terrain, „I would see more of it. Not just the stone; but what lives within it, what breathes here.” It would not be enough to see only plain stone. She wished to glimpse the rhythm of their days; the way they moved through the land, how they wove the old ways into each breath and gesture, how reverence lingered not only in ritual, but in the quiet moments in between.
„Show me the marrow of your endurance, Solharr,” the faintest curl of challenge in her voice, soft and real; her gaze settled on his flame form once more. „Let me decide if it’s something I could bear beside you.” There was no commitment in her tone, but curiosity, tempted by caution of course, yet honest; a flicker of flame beneath her snowbound shell.