Neverwinter Forest Keep the knife close while you sleep.

One must wonder how many oaths must be broken before the universe takes notice. So far, many—and little repercussions to follow. The soldier trailed desert sand for a while after his duties ended; he knew he was meant to return to the palace, or that his return was agreed upon in the weeks prior—however, as he marched and shed all sandborn identifiers, he found himself roaming beyond the path.

Who was he without a commander? He once thought the answer sat within Rivenwood. He once thought he could work it out within Mereo's ranks. Or alone, as it happens. The choice to return to Akashingo wasn't much of a choice; given the opportunity, Myrmidon shrugged off the responsibilities and expectations and delved through the Wilds by his own terms.

Maybe he meant to return to the bypass.

Maybe he meant to go until someone stopped him, properly, and finally.

Maybe there was nothing for him anywhere, and so the giant fell in to lazy migrations. Like a bear seeking a hiding place for hibernation — and why not? Hadn't he earned it?

The emberwood of Neverwinter crowded around him before he knew it.

sólhárr watched the stranger from his vantage, a stony, silent sentinel beneath the dense pines. he was no stranger to the weight a man carried after a lifetime of oaths—promises made, perhaps, to ghosts. but in these lands, beneath the cold gaze of the northern stars, the only truth lay in what was earned.

he approached, his steps deliberate, bearing down upon the stranger with the full weight of his presence—a towering figure, shadows shifting across his darkened fur like the earth itself moving. his eyes bore into the man, unyielding, measuring. 

sólhárr had seen many pass through these woods, some with purpose, others chasing the last whispers of forgotten duties. but there was something different in the way this one moved, as if he drifted not through territory but memory, each step shedding an old life.

sólhárr's voice, deep and rumbled like distant thunder, broke the silence. this is no place for aimless wandering. he tilted his head, a challenge in his stare. what are you here to earn?

the question hung heavily between them, an invitation—or a threat. it mattered not which way the man would take it, for in the north, actions spoke louder than words.

Often faced with those opposed to his presence, Myrmidon was not taken off-guard as a stranger drew through the weald. He was accustomed to being the giant among dwarves, more or less; the eyes of others going wide in his passing (he thought of Druid's face then, and in the back of that memory was the sound of breaking bone). This moment was only an outlier because the stranger was no dwarf. If anything, they rivaled Myrmidon in height and weight; perhaps they were evenly matched, but he would not know that without a proper test.

The stranger was intercepting him and so Myrmidon came to a halt and watched. He saw the way the man moved. He saw the edge of danger there as he took his strides, and he heard the tone of warning beneath a barely friendly veneer.

Says who? And why should he answer such questions from this man? There was a masculine tension between them—the kind seen between boxers squaring in a ring—and while neither had thrown the first punch, Myrmidon was ready for anything.

The man spoke of earnings. As if the soldier had not done enough already, he had to prove he could step foot in this forest? The last he remembered of this place — I left something here. I am reclaiming it. The dull expression upon his face does not change. He motions towards an overgrown path among the trees. Buried, that way. In the ruins.

He waited, guarding his position, studying the other man.

sólhárr’s gaze was unyielding as he took in the stranger’s stance and words. there was no submission in this one’s posture, no flicker of hesitation in his claim. yet, in forneskja, only one name held weight. he stepped forward, his shadow cast long and imposing in the filtered light.

me, he answered, the word a low rumble, steady as stone. hárkonungr of forneskja, his presence seemed to declare without the need for further words, the weight of authority embedded in his voice.

the stranger’s path, whatever his mission, would bend here. the unspoken command lingered between them: he would follow.

The stranger was trying to impose their will upon him. Others had tried, and others had failed; but it gave Myrmidon a moment to pause and reflect. Here was a beast close to his stature, maybe age too, who fought for something. There was no sign of other scents here—and as they began to roam together towards the moss-hewn mess which had once been a rock slide in to the forest, Myrmidon took a draught of air and found he was wrong there; maybe one other, a woman? Nonetheless, too few to be of concern to Myrmidon.

Then again, he could hear the way the ferns crushed beneath the man's step. He could feel the pressure of his presence alongside him as they moved together through the old debris field. The danger remained; a younger Myrmidon might have goaded the stranger in to a fight by now.

They came finally to a tree split almost in half, which somehow was still alive. A boulder had crashed in to it years ago but now was overrun by moss.

Here. He wasn't entirely sure, but feigned interest at the base of this odd sculptural growth. He had been a boy when the tusk had been stolen, and buried, and hidden. His interest in it wasn't real either—better to give himself time enough to study this man, and his land. For this purpose Myrmidon began to dig, keeping with the ruse.

his eyes narrowed as he watched the stranger dig, his posture tense with barely concealed skepticism. this one had stepped onto his land without a name, a shadowed intent wrapped in few words and silent pauses. though he seemed focused on the soil beneath his paws..

he held his place nearby, gaze sharp and unyielding, scrutinizing each movement. the stranger’s build, his steady paws, the subtle glances he cast toward sólhárr—all of it spoke to a man not here by accident. this wasn’t merely about uncovering something lost; it was an unspoken challenge.

sólhárr kept his silence, allowing the weight of his presence to linger, a wordless warning. he didn’t know this man’s name, and perhaps he didn’t care to know it. names were earned, as was trust, and neither had yet been offered. so he stood watch, unrelenting and unmoving, eyes cold as stone, prepared to see what would truly surface from this man’s purpose.

The dirt gave way. The world was tilting towards winter and yes, that meant the soil was harder to work with, but he wasn't bothered. Soon enough a small crater had been excavated; there was nothing at this depth, though. Some stones, some thin roots now cut to pieces, but not the prize he said he was after.

The giant chose another spot near the base of the tree, and began again. And then a third time. While the growth had survived this long after the fall of Moonspear it might not handle being summarily uprooted by the bear-man.

Myrmidon wondered after his watcher's patience.

each clawed strike into the earth showing his impatience more than his endurance. he leaned back, silent, the breadth of his chest rising and falling steadily, keeping to himself the biting words that crowded his mind. the frost-hardened ground resisted every scrape, and the crater grew wider but remained empty.

you’re digging for ghosts, he muttered, his voice a rumble barely louder than the cracking roots. his patience was thin, yes, but he had the years to bear it.

when the man  turned his attention to yet another spot, sólhárr's eyes followed, measuring the futility of each attempt. if you dig in my land, he added, but it was not anger that spurred him, only the faint amusement of one who had already learned that not every hole holds treasure. be prepared to find roots thicker than you expect.

another pause, another shifting of the ground. perhaps it was his age, his own scars beneath his coat, but sólhárr knew that not all things buried were meant to be brought back into the light.

Newly planted are the easiest to pull out. He counters as he takes one pause, breathing the musky wet-earth smell deep in to his lungs. He regards the other man plainly, as he does everyone and everything. His expression is vaguely grim, mostly blank, but he is unafraid to let his attention linger upon the man at all.

This stranger had not been here long. Have you met the witch yet? He meant that as a joke, but lacked the inflection. Another callback to a memory they did not share, and would be meaningless by now. Still, he quirked a half-smirk, one canine tooth flashing as he turned back to his digging.

She was old when I was a kid. Probably barely hanging on now. Lived on the mountain there, I think. A flicker towards the looming Moonspear to the west, following the crumbled ruins. I stole from her. It's here somewh—ahhh, something scraped under claw.

There, buried deeper than he remembered, was an old boar's tooth. Long and yellowed, and stained by the dirt. Myrmidon lifts it free and tosses it within range of his watcher.

Deeper than your roots.

the auburn male quirked a brow at the mention of a witch, his thoughts drifting briefly to the moonwoman. he regarded the stranger with a flicker of curiosity, his gaze sharp as he let the silence settle between them.

moonwoman? he asked, tone low, almost testing. the hint of a smirk ghosted over his muzzle as he added, my wife is to be her daughter. the statement hung heavy in the air, an unspoken warning wrapped within the words. sólhárr’s eyes traced back to the boar’s tooth, a small glint of intrigue sparking as he watched it settle at his paws.

with a slow, deliberate motion, he placed a paw over the tooth, feeling the rough edge press against his pads. sly man, he thought, studying the stranger with a mix of suspicion and faint amusement. there was a cunning to him, a willingness to tread dangerous paths and claim what wasn’t freely given.

i am sólhárr. you?

The stranger spoke the title, and his remaining tattered ear gave a twitch. So, she lived. There was a connection there to a daughter too, and Myrmidon gave a small scoff but said nothing.

The man introduced himself. The bear did not care about being mysterious, but he wasn't sure which name to present — if any at all. With a glance down at that lionine paw pressed against his prize, he answers, Glaukos.

Did he care if he got that tusk back? Not really. Might be interesting to see the look on ol' Moonies face, though.

What're you calling this place, then?

sólhárr held glaukos’s gaze, letting the name settle between them like the weight of old stone.

forneskja, he said, voice carrying the ancient strength of the land itself. the name was as much an invitation as it was a claim. a place carved from the marrow of the earth, bound to the roots of those who called it home.

you’re welcome to join us, he added, the offer edged with a challenge as it lingered in the air. his gaze was steady, measuring, ready to see if this glaukos would accept or if he’d remain only a visitor to these wilds.

he pressed his paw once more against the tooth, then, with a calm deliberation, nudged it back across the soil, his eyes never leaving the other’s.

He had always served. Ursus, and the bear god of the madman. Mereo, and the army of Germanicus. Akashingo. Druid, and Heda. Perhaps choosing not to serve any cause was the better option. What did he have to lose?

I am a soldier. Do you have use for one? He asks this with the same empty tone, knowing the truth of the world (that his kind were always needed somewhere).

His gaze lingered on the reaching paw, the prize beneath, and slid up to a challenging stare with those of Solharr. I have no want for women or children, only a purpose.

sólhárr inclined his head, a subtle nod that acknowledged glaukos’s truth. of course they needed men like him. soldiers, strong and skilled, were the backbone of any land, and sólhárr understood their worth well. glaukos would find purpose here if he chose it; forneskja was no stranger to strength.

a man with your skill finds purpose wherever he stands. he replied, his tone steady, eyes meeting glaukos’s challenging stare without flinching

he paused, letting the weight of his words sink in, before adding with a faint glint of humor, a wife can be taken if you ever choose it.

sólhárr’s gaze held a flicker of amusement as he regarded the man, knowing that even those who resist ties can sometimes find themselves bound by them, in time. just not mine.

They had an understanding. More than one, it seemed — but to that last quip, Glaukos merely snorted again and drew back from both the man and the tusk. He carried an indifference which would not change; a sense of, been there, done that. It had not panned out well for him the last time he'd gotten someone pregnant, and he held little capacity for anything else.

Then yes, I would stay. Your forest will be kept with teeth. Even as he said this he was beginning the arduous task of walking away from the situation. He would canvas the landscape, see what had changed - if anything. He'd barely begun when his voice carried over a shoulder: Might want to ask that wife of yours, first. Her mother might hold a different opinion.

And maybe that would be a test for the man Solharr. Would he bend to the whim of his woman, or was he man enough to make his own choices? Glaukos wondered for all of a breath, if that mattered — and knew in the deepest recesses of his heart, that it absolutely did.

Fade?

sólhárr stepped forward, pressing his nose firmly to glaukos’s shoulder, a gesture that marked him as kin of forneskja, letting the scent of the land settle upon him like an oath. he watched as glaukos spoke, brow arching at his parting words—a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

you be surprised, he replied, voice laced with dry humor, a man of strength knows when to listen to a woman… and when to make sure his own word is the one that carries. he chuckled, a low sound that carried the weight of both amusement and certainty.

but worry not, he added, his tone almost teasing, forneskja’s roots hold steady. i got no intention of letting anyone—wife, mother,—unseat my place.

with that, sólhárr inclined his head, watching glaukos as he moved on, knowing the man would come to see forneskja as more than just a forest—it was a legacy, one that welcomed strength as much as it demanded loyalty.

fade here! if you'd like another one, feel free to ping me ^^