Neverwinter Forest kaleidoscope

the air in the tunglhjarta, the moonheart of the moongrove, was thick with the scent of pine and snow. frost clung to the ancient stones that circled the sacred space, their surfaces glimmering faintly under the light of the waxing moon. sólhárr stood at the center, his massive frame casting a long shadow over the pristine snow, a figure carved from the raw strength of the north.

his single golden eye scanned the grove as he lifted his head, a deep, resonant howl rolling from his throat. it was not a command but a summons—a call meant only for one.

@Rokkur, his voice echoed in the cold night air, the name laced with weight and purpose.

the grove’s silence swallowed the sound, leaving only the soft rustle of the trees in its wake. sólhárr’s breath steamed in the frigid air as he waited, his gaze fixed on the darkened edge of the moongrove. tonight was not one for idle words or empty gestures; there was much to discuss, much to decide. and in this sacred place, under the watchful eye of the moon, truths would be spoken.

night had fallen upon the neverwinter, and so rökkur was where he had so often been. lately, he found himself withdrawn, as if the moon wished to whisper something to him, and him alone. it seemed to beckon him, calling for his name, his spirit, although he could not decipher exactly what máni wished of him. a sorrow expression took hold of his dark features - his tail swishing back and forth while he looked upwards.

a call for him, then. his name sounded from the king of forneskja, and so the storyteller, chronicler, faith-man would respond. he had only gone for a walk for a few moments, an attempt to clear his head, but these days he was rarely ever far from the moongrove. he arrived at sólhárr's side in a quick, precise manner, slinking into a spot beside him in a way that contradicted his burly, thickly-furred body. moving like a feline.

sögumaðr's face was weary. tired, as if he had been exhausted for several nights.

what can i do for you? northern words graced his tongue, throat almost rough from disuse. his retreat had not been purposeful. winter was a harsh time ; it only ever reminded him of the past. soon spring would come, and he would be well again.

rökkur found him with ease. the man never strayed far from the máni's light. this was what the chieftain sought in the sögumaðr.

though he didn't look himself. with a stand, sólhárr approached him, offering a greeting of his nose against the mans cheek. disgruntled, he assessed him for any new injuries. nothing. you do not look well, he found comfort in using his mother tongue, the words like honey.

the sögumaðr's voice was taut like a string. dented from a lack of use. the chieftain didn't like this; it worried him beyond. especially with the events upon arrival.

what has happened?