Stone Circle when the laurel grows heavy on your brow

to be such a mix: of northmen and the highlords was perhaps once a heavy burden, but the melding of families, of culture both strong and resilient and stubborn had crafted new mythos, a new bloodline and now this is all dracarys and his elder siblings, his father and his father's father before him had ever known. the name warhall stirs something within the sirenlord, reminding him of nights spent beneath the stars learning about the twelve.

a song of home, perhaps, strange that it should spark and sizzle to life in a foreign place.

that there is no name offered in return does not fall beneath dracarys' notice. in that, the sirenlord feels an imbalance. but the navigation of this feels like he's staring at a familiar chess game, potential high stakes: the stakes? very well his life. was the truth, strange as it may sound he assumes, the better option? or a honeyed lie?

dracarys studies the proverbial board before him; weighing his options, mind playing out the game where he'd grasp the king and move into the liminal space between on the board. a risk.

there is something in your home that sings to me. dracarys swears he can feel the hum of it now, like a heartbeat beneath the earth.