Neverwinter Forest i'll swim and sail on savage seas,

directly after this thread. please allow @Einn to post first!

faithman carried himself to the border ; alongside him, the one without family, the one with a spirit who had found itself lost, the one with a palpable potential, a destiny that seemed to cloud around him like smoke, curling around him like plumes. the lorekeeper could not describe such an aura ; instead, he could only present it to the king.

tilting his dark head back, a low and resonant howl sounded from his throat. now, the two men stood before the neverwinter, awaiting the presence of the man borne of ice and fire. be respectful, came light instruction. @Solharr is king of these lands.

Einn's ears flicked as he heard the deep howl that seemed to echo through the forest, beckoning and calling the one he calls the 'king of the lands'. Such a high title, it made Einn's twig like legs shake, or perhaps he was very weak from the lack of food. Either way, he was on the brink of collapsing.

His tail wagged subtly out of nervous excitement, maybe to meet this king or to get some real food. Gods, why was he thinking about food so much?
I'm sure I can be respectful, but feel free to claw out my other eye if I say something cheeky. I'm bound to be brazen, it was something my mother always hated.

from the shadows like a stormcloud, his golden eye narrowing as it swept over the scene before him. the faintest tilt of his head acknowledged rökkur first, the man’s steady presence as familiar as the distant hum of the ocean. his gaze then shifted to the stranger—a skeletal thing, beaten down by hunger and hardship, yet somehow still standing. still wagging his tail, even.

the king’s steps were slow, each one a reminder of his weight, his strength, the fire that burned within him. he stopped just short of the pair, his gaze lingering on the stranger’s missing eye before flicking briefly to rökkur.

you called, he said simply, his voice low and edged with gravel. he didn’t offer more, instead waiting, watching, the sharpness of his silence cutting through the cold air like a blade.