Neverwinter Forest a device, a saviour

though the neverwinter he walked, drawing himself forwards, feeling lighter, livelier, brighter. and though he may not be particularly happier, or free of the dreams that come with the moonless, prayerless nights, he has an intention for the day, and so when he tilts his head back and calls for @Iruna, the sögumaðr makes no waste of his time as he treks towards the baths, hoping for the woman of the dragons bay to find his scent and follow.

it is there, by the edge of the pool, that he waits for her, herbs and flowers scattered by his paws, each with a different smell, a different property. three species of the former, two of the latter, he hopes that the woman of ice and mountains will accept his invitation and allow some sort of relaxation to seep into her tense muscles, her working bones.

the sögumaðr beckons.

she finds his scent easily enough, fresh against the backdrop of the forest’s crisp stillness, and it leads her to the edge of the baths, where the air is warm and tinged with the faint sweetness of herbs and flowers. he stands there, a strong man against the steam that rises from the pools, his scarlet eyes holding her frozen. it stirs something within her—apprehension and girlish excitement which she scorns—as her icy blue gaze sweeps over the scattered offerings at his paws. herbs for healing, flowers for fragrance… a thoughtful gesture. unexpected. she wanders, with a tilt of his head, what exactly makes up this man.

still, she forces herself to approach. paws picking their way over snowmelt. when she reaches him, a playful smile warms her beautiful face, eyes pitching amusement up to him. and what is this, rökkur mánison?

she, too, seems to waste no time, and the guardian finds that to be an attribute that he can appreciate. a smile upon the womans face is all he needs to see for one, too, to spread upon a maw of his own ; a smile that is inviting, quite simply happy to have her answer his call. this, íruna úthafskari, rökkur begins. is a day for us to be alone.

it is the rosemary that he reaches for, first, as he prepares to explain what exactly they will be doing here, on this day. our study of spiritualism and prayer oftentimes find a sort of overlap between other fields and beliefs, came his voice, low and yet soothing when he spoke almost absent-mindedly of something he was interested in. a tone that could lull someone to sleep, not because it was boring, but simply because the way in which he spoke came as a comfort to many. a gentleness carried his voice ; soft.

with the bunch of herbs between his teeth, he trots towards the edge of the pool, lowering the rosemary within it, letting it find its place within the water, staining it with its scent, its properties. rosemary is known for its connection to the divine, came rökkur's words. it is connected to the lifeblood of both god and goddess ; whispers of feminine compassion, intuition, and nurturing, alongside the masculine courage, protection, confidence, its scent was strong in the air, though not over-powering. rather, it came as a comfort, a blessing upon mortals as rökkur moved to the next herb.

then, it is the stems of chamomile that is within his teeth, looking to the læknir as he moved, wishing to discern her expression, curious as to what he thought of this ritual thus far. he moved, then, to the pool, and dropped the pale plant into the water, allowing the sweet, applelike scent to fill the air, to stain the water. soon, they would bathe, though first his words, carried by the steam and the breeze, came to the woman: chamomile is said to have relaxing properties, he smiled. it is a herb that brings positivity ; happiness, good fortune, healing and restfulness. similarly, it is commonly used in baths to purify and to cleanse the body and the soul of any negative energies bestowed by cruel spirits or rituals designed to bring harm, passionate words.

next, came the cool scent of mint. the green bunch of leaves was brought into his maw, and now he sat by the pool, gently placing the herbs within the waters. it came as a refreshing smell, cleanly and cold in scent, akin to the smell of wintertime. mint, too, cleanses and purifies, though it focuses more on the wellbeing of the mind, rather than the evils one may face, the sögumaðr said, now. it alleviates stress, and is said to boost confidence and bring luck to those who need it. also, and his next words came with humour. it aids in digestion, so if you have been having any trouble eating, lately, this plant is for you. i also think it smells nice, so i like to bathe within it.

now, he stood, and turned towards the woman. those are the herbs we will be using. now, would you care to join me for a bath, íruna? came a friendly tilt of his head.

this took a hot minute because i'm doing actual research into the spiritual properties of these plants ...

heavy breathing

she didn't know what she expected, but it certainly was not to see him like this—softened, calm, almost tender in his passion. it stirs something within her chest, something she will not speak of. the rosemary’s sharp scent mingles with the earthiness of the mint and the faint sweetness of chamomile, each one adding a new layer to the air around them. and she listens, almost eagerly, as rökkur explains the properties of each herb, the depth of his knowledge and the reverence in his tone grounding her in a way she didn’t expect. almost all of which he speaks, she already knows, and yet she is attentive like a woman made again; her breath coming in shallow strokes into her lungs that burned. she feels herself relax ever so slightly, the tension in her shoulders loosening as the herbs stain the water with their blessings. his words are powerful in their softness, thoughtful.

still, she can’t help but wonder at his intent. a day for them to be alone. it feels… significant, somehow, though she keeps those thoughts tucked away, hidden behind the steady calm of her features. she does not yet know if this moment is for her, or for him, or for something larger than them both. a thoughtful selection, she murmurs at last, approval upon her northern tongue. her gaze drifts briefly to the pool, watching the herbs swirl and settle, their scents mingling into something soothing, something she is eager to feel upon muscles and hide. you are thorough, sögumaðr. her eyes crease with bemusement.

she steps closer to the edge of the pool, her silver and blue coat catching the moonlight as it filters through the trees. the warmth of the steam brushes against her fur, and she lets herself breathe it in, her icy gaze flickering briefly to meet his scarlet eyes. perhaps i have been too tense, she admits after a moment, voice breathy and light, as if feeding into his words; offering him the flick of her tail, letting it slide upon muscle that coats his scarred pelt. now, she is tender. she is unafraid of the subtle intimacy that now lingers in the space between them. she would press herself up against him, if she could, driven by something within but she does not. she maintains a short, lingering space—just enough to leave one wanting.

without ceremony and without his bid, she steps forward, and lowers herself into the warm, herb-laden water. the scents wrap around her, soothing and invigorating all at once, and for the first time in what feels like ages, she allows herself to let go—if only slightly. though her thoughts still churn beneath the surface, she feels the beginnings of ease settle into her bones. she glances at rökkur, her icy eyes softened by the steam, waiting for him to join her. she moves naturally through the cool water, ignoring the frigid bite of winter; if anything, it makes her feel alive. and she knows, or hopes, he will soon join her and they will indulge in one another's warmth. over her shoulder, she looks at the man through lidded eyes. a lady should never be kept waiting, sögumaðr.

it is the woman borne of dragons who leads the way, turning back towards rökkur with a gaze that makes his chest tighten. he takes a breath, for a moment, something unknown, unreadable swimming behind his scarlet eyes, before he follows after the silken woman, silver as the moons light, painted ethereally as she stood beneath it. rökkur moved in a manner akin to a panther, rolling shoulders carrying him through the cool water, sharing warmth between them. he would touch his nose against her cheek, whispering in her ear: let the water course through you, the herbs will do as the gods intend them to. all you must do, now, is to enjoy the moment. he pulled ahead, then, in front of her.

quickly, with an almost-grace, he would duck himself beneath the surface of the water for a second, two, three, four. five seconds went past before he rose, his fur darkened, thick and heavy against his well-muscled figure, drenched. it cooled his skin in a way that he enjoyed, and the scents of the herbs, now imbued into his fur, would last for a good while. he turned to face íruna, now. sögumaðr moved towards læknir, coming to her in a closeness that was not quite touch, a closeness that left one wanting. his whispers came to her like sunlight filtering through fog, saying: do as i do, íruna úthafskari, something almost sensual in the way he speaks. let the water envelop you, let it take you under and make you new, shedding that in which troubles you.

he puts his nose to her forehead, then, and should she agree, guides her down, down, down, into the pools. the start of something - both of a bond unknown to them, and a tradition that the sögumaðr will soon hope to keep for many, many generations.

íruna inhales deeply, the steam rising around her, wrapping her like an embrace. her icy blue gaze does not leave his for a moment, her chest rising and falling with the weight of unspoken words, the tension of something she feels burning in her chest, something she cannot name—or refuses to. the water ripples at her paws, warm and alive, but it is not the water that roots her here. it is him.

there is a fluidity in the way she moves now, a quiet grace that seems to melt into his presence. the usual strength in her posture softens, not diminished but altered, transformed into something gentler, something warmer. the space between them feels charged, thick with the weight of possibilities, but she does not speak. she does not name it. she only lets it linger, a spark unlit. when he touches her, guiding her with the faintest brush of his nose, she does not resist. instead, she tilts her head into the touch, her breath catching for just a moment before she exhales softly, as if releasing something unseen. her steps are deliberate, slow and fluid as she follows his lead, the water rising around her. it laps at her legs, her shoulders, her neck, and she feels it pulling her, cradling her as she sinks further in.

she wishes she could tell him now. the words press against her tongue, a desperate urge to reveal the truth that sits heavy in her chest. that the gods have chosen him, that their fates are entwined, that she is his, and he is hers—by divine will and no other. but she does not speak. she does not dare break the quiet sanctity of this moment. instead, she lets the water take her. it envelops her, warm and soothing, seeping into her muscles, her bones, her very being. she closes her eyes, surrendering to the water’s embrace, and in that surrender, she feels something shift within her.

íruna allows herself to be guided, trusting him wholly in a way that feels both foreign and natural. her movements are seamless, melding into his as if they are one, as if their paths have always been meant to cross and intertwine. she lets herself sink, lets herself shed the weight she carries, if only for a moment, if only in this sacred space. the warmth of the pool and the closeness of him are all that matter now, and she breathes deeply, letting the moment claim her. when she surfaces, her icy blue eyes meet his again, her breath steady now, her chest lighter. water drips from her fur, tracing the curves of her frame. instead, she looks at him, her gaze softer than it has ever been, the intensity of her emotions shining through in the quiet stillness between them.

and it is in their silent bathing that the rest of the night is spent, with rökkur leading the pale woman deeper into the waters, guiding her, keeping her safe within the scented, frigid pool. it is in stillness that they remain until the moon has worked her way down the sky. together, they exit, and rökkur is careful in sorting the twin flowers into the womans pelt, adorning her with white and yellow petals.

it is as dawn begins to turn the sky from a deep navy to a dark ruby, a muted orange and a light yellow that will transition into a typical winter blue. they depart before the stars may disappear, and it is with a nudge of his cheek against hers that he says goodbye, and murmurs quiet thanks for this shared moment that they had been able to enjoy. a moment that would not slip from his mind so easily, akin to the woman herself.

the image of her was still fresh within his mind by the time he had reached his den.

curious, then, of what might bloom from what feels to be a forming bond.

exit rokkur <3

íruna stands for a moment longer, letting the cold morning air seep into her fur, grounding her. the petals nestled against her pelt are a quiet weight, a gentle reminder of the night now passed.

she exhales softly, her breath curling in the frost-bitten dawn, and turns away from the pool. without a word, she slips into the shadows of the trees, her steps steady, her path clear.

the gods have spoken, and she will follow.

exit iruna <3