Neverwinter Forest there's no crowds in the street,

for @Iruna

tw for thoughts of suicide

it was through the neverwinter that the man walked. his position as sögumaðr, however holy, however important to the pack did not permit his entrance to the women-only spaces, and so he would walk towards the markers in which determined their starting points and tilted his head back in a howl of summons, calling for the seer of which he had yet to meet. iruna, her name was, working with the guidance of seiðkona.

with heavy limbs and a weariness upon his expression he would continue to move, whether away or towards the woman was unbeknownst to him, rökkur simply could not allow himself to be still within the snow that carpeted the ground for too long, should the images of the scarlet and the mounds that heaved with their final breaths linger within his mind ; push him over an edge he was uncertain he would survive. a drop, a fall.

dark paws carried him. would they brace for impact, or would they allow his perishing?

simply put, he wished not to dwell.

íruna hears the howl, and recognizes that it is a call for her. but why? she straightens from where she crouches, tending to the roots of a stubborn plant buried beneath the frost, and her icy eyes lift toward the direction of the sound.

rökkur, she murmurs under her breath, ears twitching to and fro to pinpoint from where he calls her from. when she moves, it is swift; muscles working to carry her forth upon a strong woman's legs. the gods guide her steps as surely as they guide his, and she answers his call without hesitation. soon, he is there and the newly promoted læknir regards him with warm eyes and warm hearth. a smile lilts upon her face, feminine eyes of blue draping delicately upon the man of faith.

yet, he is solemn. it does not take much to realize this, and she treads carefully towards the lumbering man. rökkur, his name is upon her tongue again as she comes to a slow halt, just a handful of paces away.

þú kallaðir á mig.

rökkur, the name was distant as it wrung through his head. ringing, echoing through his skull as if it were more distant than it truly was. but, being faced with a woman of cool, blue tones, he blinked for a moment, and her next words came clearly: you called for me.

ég gerði, the lorekeeper said, his voice rough from disuse, slowly warming the more he spoke. ég veit hvað þú heitir, en við höfum ekki kynnt okkur almennilega fyrir hvort öðru, formalities lingered within his tone as he gave a nod of his head. ég heiti rökkur mánison, og þú ert íruna ... ? prompting a sirename from the woman, though not offended nor upset should she not provide one, instead raising his dark head.

he watched her face curiously, hard, scarlet eyes assessing her, approving, warming.

íruna holds his scarlet gaze, her lavender eyes steady, but something sharp stirs behind them. her thoughts drift momentarily—to sólhárr’s voice, low and teasing, the smirk on his lips as he reminded her of the gods’ will. of the path they supposedly had laid before her.

the path that seemed to end at his side.

ég er írúna úthafskari, dóttir drákensvágr. she dips her head slightly in acknowledgment of his words, her tail flicking behind her. she does not doubt the weight of his words, his name. her head lifts, and she lays icy eyes upon scarlet hues, and then there is warmth that spreads from lip to lip.

ek veit hver þú ert, sögumaðr. orð þín og speki hafa náð margra eyrum; samt ekki minn, hm? there lays implication within her words, thinly veiled. perhaps testing the man, poking at the thick walls of his resolve to ask, simply, why he has not sought her out before now.

was the shieldmaiden, daughter from dragon's bay, not worthy of rökkur's eye? and somehow, now, she begins to grow disdain in her heart. begrudging for the man. he has spoken with many, many for the læknir to know of him in great detail, whisperings from the women of callyope's circle—and has left her waiting. perhaps he was simply intimidated by her. that is enough to cool her fiery spittle, and instead produce pride in her dragoness heart.

daughter of the dragons bay, comes her birth-given title, and so the guardian of the moongrove may find himself more understanding of the embers that flicker and ebb beyond a gaze of glaciers. perhaps it was the spirit of such a beast that powered through her, coursed through her golden blood and gave her a fire unmatched by many. to that, he nodded, as if commemorating the land in which she came.

and it was with such a flame that she tested him, now, and though a shame rose through his spine, the thought of countless days and nights spent within his den, unmoving, eating nothing, drinking nothing, he had bathed before he to seek her audience. he had caught himself a hare, soothed his parched throat, and so it was with a smile, though coy, that he answered: starfi hlustanda máni's er aldrei lokið. það er margt að gera fyrir utan að koma saman, þó ég biðst afsökunar á því að hafa ekki hitt þig fyrr.

letting his faith guide him as the light overhead did, he said: það eru margar nætur sem skýin verja hana fyrir augsýn, og á þeim nóttum segja sögurnar, að það verði að vera án bænar né svefns, had it been the result of such sleepless nights, that he was now weary? eins og hvað er bæn eða svefn án leiðsagnar máni?

but it was with dry humour that he said: veturinn er mér hins vegar óvinsamlegur, sama hvað ég greiði eða vilji, a sighs' release, as well as a shake of a dark head.

she does not interrupt, letting him weave his explanations like the threads of a tapestry. her head tilts slightly at his dry remark, the faintest hint of amusement flickering in her expression, yet and though it is tempered by the calm gravity she always carries. above all else, she is there to reassure the man.

that is her duty now. so she steps forth, close to him, seeking no permission for she does not need it. he does not know this yet, she does not think, but the woman is in no mood for idle. she must be active. strong heart, strong body, she lets her fur meld to that of his shoulder, and glimpses at him. starfi hlustanda máni's er virðingarvert. a nose comes to kiss the man on the cheek, before brushing through the dark fur of his head to root towards his ear. það er aðeins rétt að þú fylgir leiðsögninni sem hún veitir, jafnvel á þeim nóttum þegar skýin fela hana frá okkur.

she lets her voice lower as she regards the man, pulling back face from his so that she does not overwhelm him with her touch. it is not meant to be imposing, but instead, warming. comforting. beneath this midnight's embrace, at the side of her to be, she is nothing but welcoming. and though she is a warm woman, she is soft by no means. her voice is now rough as she speaks to him, stern in only the way a steady wife could be.

for that is what she will be to him. steady, not soft. she is strength at his side and will keep his head from dropping from beneath máni's protection.

ég vona að þú leyfir ekki vetrinum að halda þér niðri lengi, rökkur mánison.

he is called honourable, justified in her tellings. the man gives a small breath, unaware that he had been holding any at all. her cold, black nose meets his brown cheek, then navigating his furs to meet his ear, murmuring that he is right to follow her guidance, even when she shies away from the mortals in which she lights. he does not shy away from the touch, though is careful to meet it, wishing not to over-step ; to push away the kindness that she now bestows upon him with great mercy. he murmured a small thanks.

and he is warmed. comforted, by her touch. something that he had not quite expected from the læknir, though he supposed there was no reason to think otherwise. though her words to not come as one speaks to a crying whelp, no. her words come to a man who must be resilient, who faces his trials and is not alone in his standing, though he can not expect others to do what he must. do not let the winter hold you down for long, those are the words that meet him, that speak to him, gifted to the guardian of the moongrove by írúna úthafskari, daughter of the dragons bay. he smiles, then, and nods.

eigi vil eg gera það, því að sameiningu hárkonungr okkar og seiðkona má ekki dempast af grófum sögumaðr, words came humorous, testing her, watching her expression to see if they may get along. he has yet to know of their arrangement, and so he watches her with a glint in his eye that hopes for friendship. for times of laughter spent together, with little else in mind. a change in tone, then, adopting a more serious nature: mér hefur verið falin sú ábyrgð að binda samband þeirra með bæn í nafni máni, he takes a quick breath. ég get aðeins vonað að bænin heyrist, því þau vilja eignast börn - vissir þú? perhaps he was too much of a gossip.

he wondered, then, if he, too, would have any children this coming year.

tired of doing the hover code !!!!

íruna watches him, the flicker of humor in his tone catching her ear. her expression, usually steadfast and unreadable, softens just enough to reveal a faint curve of her lips—a shadow of a smile. she wonders at his humor, his lightness, and for a moment, it is almost refreshing—a break from the weight that constantly presses down on her shoulders. “i would hope not,” she says with a teasing hum, moving to walk past the great man, casting him a beckoning glance over the shoulder. “our hárkonungr would not take kindly to a sögumaðr who falters.” another tease upon the tongue.

yet when his words turn to the union of sólhárr and callyope, a subtle tension flickers across her features. so he does not know. or, if he does, he gives no hint that he does. she twists upon her paws to face the man once more, only now she is once more several paces away, looking upon him with curious eyes. “i am aware of their intentions,” her voice is quiet now, as if lost in thought. she shakes her head and readjusts her look upon the large man. she hesitates.

“and you, rökkur? do you pray to máni for your own future?”

same ;;

lucky for him, i do not falter, the man shot back, a smirk upon his maw as he rose a single brow, curious of this woman, now, and what getting to know her might entail. a lady of humour, it seemed, welcoming his jesting and returning it with a tease of her own. but there is something that flickers across her expression, a wave upon the sands as the tide begins to rear forwards. he pulls forwards, then, following.

her steps were quick, prompting for her to gain ground quickly, standing a few paces ahead of him as the guardian took his time, careful, as if stalking his prey. shoulders rolled and steps were precise, though he wore a simple, pleasant expression, drawing towards her with heavy steps, akin to the saunter of a lion. i am aware of their intentions, came her voice, and then a shake of her blue head as she seemed to push an image, a thought away from her mind. and she asked him, then, if he prayed for his future.

sometimes, he answered, thoughtful, growing close enough, now, for their breaths to mingle. he watched her with scarlet eyes, and gave a curious blink before the following words came: most of my prayers are for others, typically not myself, was it selfless, or was it careless? though he gave the typical prayer every night to keep his connection, his faith, he rarely prayed for little else to enter his life, more-so trying to reaffirm the health and the well-being of the wolves around him. he hummed, then.

touching his nose to hers, a gentle, cold kiss, he whispered. do you pray for yours?

his touch, soft and fleeting, lingers like frost against her nose, and yet her thoughts run hot, burning and turning over the truth she knows but he does not. this man—this sögumaðr with ruby eyes and a voice that carries the weight of stories—will call her his. and she, in turn, must call him hers. her chest tightens, but she does not let it show. her expression remains calm, unreadable, though her thoughts churn beneath the surface like waves against a rocky shore. she will wed him. she will bear his children, the future of forneskja written in their blood. and yet, he stands here, unaware, asking her if she prays for herself. asking her questions that feel so distant from the truth that binds them.

her gaze sharpens slightly, though it does not leave his. she studies him, searching his scarlet eyes as if the answers to her unspoken questions might lie within. what does he see when he looks at her? a healer? a shieldmaiden? a stranger? does he feel the weight of what the gods have decided for them? or is he blissfully unaware, untouched by the burden that has already settled onto her shoulders?

not often, with that, she returns his touch. letting her nose press back to his, lingering and basking in the weight of his strength. he is strong. she sees this in him. she is not afraid to look into his scarlet eyes, and see before her the man he is. so, she says: my prayers are for forneskja, for the gods’ will. for what must be done. it is then she tears her head and stare away, beginning once more to drift. she must move, so she does not drown in his presence. in his scent. the knowledge she hides from him is one that is weighty. i do not think to ask for myself. i do not think it would matter if i did. the gods do not give what we want. only what is needed.

her steps are light, carrying her forth. as if she is prancing over the snow of neverwinter, another lingering gaze cast over shoulder to look upon rokkur. she wonders, faintly, what he will think of her when he knows. when he understands what the gods have already decided for them. will he see her as a partner? or as a duty?

though he cannot see the churning of thoughts within her mind, the way they lap upon her consciousness like hungry waves upon a black, rocky shore, he can feel the way in which she tenses, though her face remains calm, the cool waters of a dark ocean, there is something festering. something unknown. something that the very nature of the lorekeeper calls for him to soothe, to relinquish her of the weight that so clearly sat upon her shoulders, and yet it did not make her fall, did not drag her down. rather, her steps were light, as if she were hardly tethered to this earth and to the snows beneath them.

and when he looked at the woman before him, bathed in the hues of clouds that gathered rain, of the snowy peaks of mountain tops, of the rocks that laid upon a beaches shore, he did not see læknir, nor shieldmaiden, nor daughter of the dragons bay. simply, he saw iruna uthafskari, an embodiment in which all the parts of her were whole, and he did not turn his gaze away. rokkur did not look away from frosted glaciers, her nose returning the motion of his own, and the foundations for a bond slowly lay themselves flat upon the earth. we are similar in that way, moon-guardian said with a smile.

she had moved her gaze away, tries to trudge forwards when he speaks, and so it is with a careful nudge of his muzzle against her cheek that he stops her, draws her face back towards him, gentle in his adjustment, non-forcing, and yet quite clearly wishing for her eye-contact, for her to be still in this moment where they may speak without the presence of anyone else within these woods. for they are alone, and were given the opportunity to be vulnerable in the presence of one another: we do not take the time to pray for ourselves, only for that of forneskja, for the gods that we revere, he begun. but, iruna, our most basic form of prayer is the one in which we reaffirm our connection, and that is a ritual that is wholly from us, surrounding us and reaching, grasping from our very beings, and he would search her face as he spoke, wishing only to be understood by the woman before him. to be heard, acknowledged, even.

it is not selfish, nor cruel to pray for the futures, for the wellbeing of our own lives, for if we are lost, who will share prayer with the rest of our peoples? we may be conduits for the gods and their whispers, their paths and their tasks that they bestow upon us, but to be such conduits we are also granted the gift of asking them of favours, of bestowing upon them our hopes and our dreams, he took a breath, then, passion flowing like poetry from his maw, his breath warm upon the woman who hardly stood apart from him. close enough that they may envelop eachother, may become one in what would merely be the blink of an eye. of an icy, cold, blue eye, of which both he stared within, though his gaze was warm, alive with scarlet embers. pray for yourself, iruna, for you deserve it. perhaps they will give you both what you need ...

a single breath. and what you want.

íruna’s breath tightens in her chest, a quiet ache that is all consuming. she cannot look away, even as she feels her heart churn like a storm-tossed sea. so close to him now, she feels every word he speaks ripple through her, sinking deeper than they should. there is a heat in his words, a quiet passion, that pulls her forward even as she holds herself still. and yet she knows—she cannot tell him. not now, not yet. it is not her place to reveal what the gods have written for them. so she says, instead: i have always prayed for forneskja, for the gods, it is now the softest of murmurs she speaks with, looking into the eyes of fate himself. but never for myself. never for what i might want.

her icy blue eyes hold his, unblinking, searching for answers even as her own thoughts rage within her. she feels the weight of her role, of the gods’ will, pressing down on her shoulders, but it is a weight she has carried before. what unsettles her now is the realization that he might one day share it with her. that they might be bound by something far greater than either of them. you have given me much to think about, rökkur, she continues softly, and there is gratitude in her words. she cannot say more—cannot tell him that his words have steadied her in ways she did not expect. that, in his presence, the path ahead feels less like a duty and more like a promise. her tongue is bound by the gods, by the knowledge she must carry until the right moment.

she exhales slowly, her breath curling in the cold air, and takes a small step back. the space between them is still charged, alive with something unspoken but undeniable. she wonders if he feels it too—the pull of something larger than themselves, the beginnings of a bond that neither can name yet. but she fears that if their touch lingers any longer, that she might break. thank you, she whispers to him and trusts the gods to carry forth her voice to him, for reminding me that even those who serve must sometimes ask. her eyes flick away for a brief moment, gathering herself, before returning to meet his again. she cannot say what she truly feels, cannot share the secret of the gods’ will that burns in her chest. but as she looks at him, at the warmth in his scarlet gaze, she knows she will hold that secret until the gods see fit to reveal it. for now, she will wait, and she will watch. because though her fate is already decided, she wonders—will he accept it when he knows? will he choose to stand at her side, as the gods intend?

a huff leaves her, expelling the weight from the berth of her chest and she lets her icy eyes rest upon him. she dares not speak, instead, basking in the silence that now befalls them. he feels close, and yet they are still worlds apart. íruna swallows her anxieties and thus places forth her trust in the gods. perhaps, she will seek council with @Callyope. trust in her sister the thoughts that swell and corrupt her mind. that trouble her. she blows a whisper out and steps forth again, to press nose to rökkur's strong shoulder, to feel the thrum of power beneath his dark coat, and she shudders. find me again, under the moonlight, rökkur mánison. there i will wait for you.

exit iruna - im squealing. tmw your betrothed that doesnt know he's your betrothed is buff AND a man of faith!!

and he is watching as her eyes search his, as if scanning them for something more, something that lingered deep within them. and if she would find it, she would see the river of scarlet that had stained the mountains red, and the terror and the pain that the guardian of the moongrove had tried so hard to conceal. but not only was their a past, a history that glimmered from his tired eyes, there was also a present, and a future. one of a blooming warmth that he could not quite explain - but he held faith for forneskja, that much he knew to be true. and her words meet the ears of he who is always listening.

íruna thanks him, her words a whisper, carried forth by the winds and the gods that guide them. he gives a dip of his head, ever humble. when rökkur rises, he can see the thoughts flickering behind her gaze, sparking like embers upon a cold snow. her cold, black nose meets his shoulder, and so the lorekeeper dares to touch his own to the crown of her head, the space between her ears, breathing her in and keeping hold of this memory, if only for a little while. he is gentle with the strokes of his nose against her head when she shudders, akin to a dam comforting her lamb. i will find you, comes his promise.

when he pulls away, it is with great reluctance, though he gives the woman before him one last nod before he murmurs goodnight, íruna úthafskari, and brushes against her as he weaves his way through the trees towards his den. he does not know it, yet. rökkur is not aware of what their king plans for them, but there is a chance, small and yet present nonetheless, that the den he now travels towards will soon hold two.

i need more of them !!! asap !!! ... tfw you dont even know youre betrothed but even if you did find out you wouldnt even be mad