Neverwinter Forest when the curtains call the time

for @Pangur

“pangur,” she greeted, her voice calm and steady as she came closer. her tail swayed lightly, a subtle gesture of reassurance. “how are you feeling today? any pain or stiffness?”

without waiting for an answer, írúna settled beside her, setting down the satchel and beginning to unpack its contents. her movements were precise, practiced, as she pulled out a fresh poultice and a roll of bandages. “let me take a look,” she said, her tone leaving no room for protest, though it carried a warmth that softened her authority.

she leaned in carefully, her paw brushing lightly against the injured leg as she inspected it. “the swelling has gone down,” she noted aloud, more to herself than to pangur.

Pangur had been sat in quiet reverence, letting the calm breeze roll through her fur, taking note of every scent on the wind, from the strong mark of wolf in the glen, the pines that surrounded them, to the feintest trace of deer somewhere far away. She prayed for an early spring, for bounty and for blessing; that Jörðnýr might smile upon them and give the gift of blooming flowers and melted snow. 

Iruna. She greeted in kind with a sweet grin and a flick of her tail, she was not the most familiar, but Pangur had been doing her research as of late, listening for which names matched with each form. Hers was a lovely one; the glow of dawn, of the rising sun; renewal all the same as that commanded by the god of seasons, such a title was fitting of the woman's beauty. She came to her with words of warm concern, eyes of pale lavender fell quickly to Pangur's leg in all its half-healed glory. 

Pangur gave no protest, she offered her foreleg to the expert. Outwardly, she had not let the ailment give her grief, but in secret? In the dark of her den? Oh it stung so so bad! Pangur was reminded of her own namesake, perhaps such a scar would be fitting. It feels alright! much much better than before. Do you think that it will leave a scar?

she doesn’t hesitate, lowering herself smoothly to examine the injured limb, her touch light but deliberate as she begins her work. “perhaps. it depends on how well we’ve managed the healing so far. but scars, they are not marks of weakness.” she pauses, pressing lightly along the edge of the wound, gauging pangur’s reaction as she works. “they are reminders—of what we’ve endured, what we’ve overcome.”

she reaches into her satchel, pulling out a small bundle of dried herbs. her movements are practiced, careful, as she begins preparing a fresh poultice. “it feels better, you say? that’s a good sign. the swelling has gone down, and the edges of the wound are clean. it’s healing well.” írúna’s voice is factual, but there’s a note of satisfaction that softens her tone.

as she applies the poultice, wrapping it neatly with fresh bandages, she glances up again, her expression thoughtful. “and perhaps,” she adds, a small smile forming, “jörðnýr has already blessed you. a scar or no scar, your leg grows stronger, and that is its own kind of renewal.”

She listened intently as Iruna studied the wound; admiring the workings of the healer's mind, so tuned to the smallest details. I hope it will leave a scar. She says lightly, her posture straightening as she looked down at the gashes, not so grievous as they once were, it was hard to not see healers as magic, the way something so horrible could be mended into something that hardly looked to be there in the first place. It would remind me of the day I came here. There was pride in the way she spoke, something tender and heartfelt.

I should find the mountain cat and give him great thanks. She snickered. Mountain cat would likely give her a matching set if she did seek him out. Surely he was still angered that she took his food from him.

íruna raises a brow, her lavender eyes flicking up from the wound to meet pangur’s gaze. the faintest hint of a smirk tugs at her lips, a rare and fleeting expression, as she listens to the other woman’s musings.

pangur’s pride draws a faint chuckle from írúna, low and quiet in her throat. if the mountain cat is still alive, i’d wager he’s not so keen on your thanks, she remarks, her ears twitching slightly.

she leans back slightly, brushing the frost off her paws as she straightens. her gaze lingers briefly on pangur’s leg before lifting again, sharp and assessing. it’s good you can laugh about it now. but perhaps wait until you’re fully healed before tempting another fight. scars are one thing, but a matching set might not mend as well. her smirk deepens, and though her words carry a cautionary note, there’s a glimmer of shared amusement in her tone.

It is fine, I will beat him again. Pangur snickers and gives an idle shrug, only half-serious in her pride-laced declaration. I joke! One set of claw marks is enough for me.

She let Iruna look over the wound to her hearts content, gave no protest or trouble as wrappings were changed, even if the process caused the ache to resurface; she kept her reactions within the expressions on her face, a slight wince here and there.

Pangur was rather used to such a process, much of her youth was spent sitting just like this, offering whichever part of herself she'd come to hurt; being scolded by móður for her recklessness. Her chest ached for the memory, for only a moment, Hazel eyes held a softness to them.

Where did you come to learn these things? She questioned as she watched, a quiet reverence offered to the skill. Pangur herself was rather hopeless with these sorts of things. She knew the basics, and hardly even those, one time she had mistaken stinging nettle for another plant, and smeared its burning leaves over a fresh cut. What a miserable day that had been.

íruna does not pause in her work, focused on the task at hand as she adjusts the wrappings on pangur's leg. her touch is firm yet gentle; she will mend what needs mending. the faintest smile flickers at pangur's jest, but it fades into a more thoughtful expression.

my father believed his daughter should be no less skilled than his sons, she speaks with a strong voice. he trained me in the art of combat, as he did them. but my mother—she believed a woman should know how to heal, to mend the wounds of others and her own.

her movements remain fluid, precise, as she secures the wrappings. my grandmother was a shieldmaiden—a warrior of great renown. my mother said if i chose to follow her path, so be it, but i would not walk it blindly. i would carry the wisdom of nature’s bounty, the knowledge of what it offers to those who seek it.

íruna straightens then, her gaze lifting to meet pangur’s hazel eyes. in the end, i chose both. shieldmaiden and healer. to protect and to restore. and now, i am here with you, pangur. fixing the leg of a warrior girl. she says with a light tease, pressing a warm kiss to the forehead of pangur.

there, you are done.