Neverwinter Forest sarsen moon

the goat’s bleating swept through the glade like a cracked bell—off-tune and oddly plaintive, just shy of pitiful. birds startled upward in wheeling dismay, a hare bounding off with a snap of twigs, darting past a silver and black pelted woman between her legs and scampering back into the woods behind her. y'var'la is the one to meet the cries, the last to leave the forest while forneskja made for the quarry, making her final rounds.

"maður sem kemur með mat,"

the voice came not as a greeting, tone flat as the stone it echoed from, and drier still. an expectation, when there is a man coming to her pack's doorstep. she stepped forward without ceremony, descending from a rise in the land like a shadow peeled from the hillside. languid but not lazy, a slow coiling grace.

y’var’la was all angles and sharp impressions: she hoped this red man would make a good one. a sliver of slate-gray fur across the bridge of her nose is the first to reach the light, golden rays falling upon her face. the wind rolled through behind her, threading through the canopy, and she closed her eyes just a moment to feel it pass—then looked back, lip curling faintly.

she paused a few paces off, giving the goat a glance, then the wolf. assessing. her tail flicked once. her gaze turned back to the braying beast, curious. "—lifandi líka, hversu góður," a pause. "what do you seek?"