Moonstone Quarry The bear that keeps to his own line

solharr turned his head with a slow drag of breath through his nose, eye lingering on her as though she were a question the gods had not yet answered. her voice—teasing and warm—filled the morning hush like sunlight spilling over stone, softening even the frost-bitten edge of his silence.

aye, he rumbled, low and dry, the corners of his mouth twitching just slightly. you do.

a joke. again. perhaps. or perhaps just the echo of one. his eye dropped to where her finger hovered, pointing to his chest with all the gravity of a child accusing the sky of stealing the moon.

there? he drawled, glancing down, then back to her with measured calm. you think so?

he stepped forward, towering still, but there was no weight in it—only the ease of a man learning where stone might bend instead of break.

he liked reminiscing.

when the hide was cut, he would offer it to her. throwing it upon her shoulders. and he would cut the antlers from the bull's skull, taking it back for the shrine.

with a nudge of his shoulder against hers, firm but not unkind, the hárkonungr turned back toward the rising quarry. the sun carved light through the stone, and in the hush that followed, the wind moved gently, as if listening.

exit need more of them!