Moonstone Quarry hits the six, and it's summer

AW — maybe moonglow or forneskja? eyes

trade: spiritualist

bathed. clean-pelted, pine-smelling. careful in his steps, avoiding anything that could dirty his pelt. travelling under the light of the máni, stepping away from the budding of forneskja only for a few moments. an hour or two, just some time for him to worship.

something had caught his eye the day prior while he had been patrolling. a crater in the ground that shone with clear pools, the faintest glittering hinting at the presence of crystals. and he had returned, now, when the night was navy and cold. thick, mountain-suited pelt warmed him as the midnight winds swished around him.

limestone stood beneath him, now, as his paws grasped at the edge of the crater. scarlet eyes scanned the walls for a way down, steep, though not impossible. a learnt art from the mountain goats. he was down within twenty, maybe thirty minutes, though not completely unscathed. rocks had tugged at his pelt, and a few slate-coloured hairs littered the walls. nonetheless, they would grow back, and so he continued.

the shadow looked into the pools, now. the máni, in all of her glowing glory, shone above. refracted, broken in the reflection. and he dipped his nose, then craned his neck to reach his forehead into the water. a connection from mind to lunar. he would dip his paw in, then, and reached back to his chest. from lunar to heart. a prayer was spoken, hushed, as if only to be heard by the máni herself:

í ljósi þínu gefum við upp okkur. þín börn, trúr og heiðarlegur. mætti dýrð okkar dýrð þín, og mætti velgjöf þín veita okkur styrk. þú ert tunglin okkar, og við erum þínir þjónar. að eilífu, eins og það hefur verið, og alltaf mun vera.

his head was raised as he said this, and when his eyes opened, full, almost near-tears, they seemed to glow with the reflection of the goddess above of him. when he looked back down, he would continue further into the quarry, searching for a larger pool to relish within. perhaps he would even stumble upon a mánasteinn.

rökkur of tunglbörn. he trudged forwards with a heavy heart. a sorrow for his past and a love for his goddess that coexisted, interacted, merged with one another. the further he went, the more he yearned for the spire. to be atop the world, gazing upon the moon.

but those times were long gone, and now he was rökkur of forneskja. his religion, his beliefs, now his own. belonging to him, and only him.