Neverwinter Forest störf

the glen held its breath in the cold, every pine bowing under the weight of winter’s touch. the circle of moonflowers surrounding the communal clearing glowed faintly, defiant against the frost. their pale light cast ethereal shadows on the weathered boulder at the glen's heart, a silent monument to the voices that had risen there before. sólhárr stood atop it now, his golden eyes surveying the space with quiet authority, his form a hulking silhouette against the endless sea of stoic evergreens.

the air was heavy, laden with an energy that felt unworldly; here, the veil between life and the spirits grew thin, their whispers carried in the wind. sólhárr inhaled deeply, the coolness filling his lungs as he tilted his muzzle skyward. his call split the air, a resonant summons that echoed through the glen and beyond, carried to the ears of those he sought.

@Y'var'la. @Pangur. their names left his throat like thunder rolling across distant peaks, commanding and sure. his voice held the weight of purpose, of decisions yet to be made beneath the watchful gaze of the moonflowers.

he lowered himself to sit upon the boulder, his gaze steady and unyielding as he waited. this was their place—where unity met purpose, where council was held, and where bonds were forged stronger than steel. the hárkonungr's patience was as enduring as the winter itself, but his mind burned with the flickering embers of what was to come.

Pangur strolled over the second rounded ears caught wind of her name, the thunderous call of authority! Hárkonungr's voice could shake even the most stoic of wolves, but it too roused passion! Hazel eyes gleamed with anticipation; she would waste no time in showing up, a skip to her step where he leg had healed from its wounds.

You have called for me,  Hárkonungr? Pangur looked up at him with impish curiosity. Eager as could be.

Y’var’la arrived in silence, her approach a study in contrast to Pangur’s boundless energy. Where the other wolf bounded, eager and impish, Y’var’la moved with the grace of a shadow slipping through moonlight.

Her silver eyes flicked toward Sólhárr as she stepped into the clearing, the Hárkonungr’s hulking form a stark monolith against the sea of evergreens. She dipped her head slightly—not submissive, but respectful, an acknowledgment of his station.

“Hárkonungr.” Her voice, smooth and cool as the frost clinging to the ground, broke the stillness. It was steady, restrained, though a flicker of curiosity danced beneath her composure. “You summoned.”

sólhárr stood atop the weathered boulder in the glen, the moonflowers at its edges casting a faint glow around his hulking form. his golden eye, sharp and discerning, moved from pangur to y’var’la as they arrived. their differences were stark—pangur, bright and bounding, and y’var’la, quiet as snowfall. together, they were balance, and forneskja thrived on balance.

he dipped his head slightly in greeting, his voice rumbling low as he began. pangur. y’var’la. my wedding. it comes with first snow.

he shifted, his gaze sweeping the glen as though envisioning the ceremony. his words were measured, deliberate, his broken common tongue a testament to his effort to reach them in their shared language.

for this, i give you task. flowers, he gestured with a broad paw to the moonflowers, these. bright. alive. we use for altar.

he paused, his gaze flicking between them to ensure understanding. spider silk. strong. it will bind offerings. ivy—green. wrap it around.

his voice deepened, imbued with meaning. this is for nornir. skuld, urd, verdandi. their tapestry grows with our choice. he stepped down from the boulder, standing before them with an air of command. you bring these. decorate the glen. make ready for gods and forneskja.

a sly grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he added, you do this well, and i give you ranks. not just wolves of forneskja. wolves of honor.

Pangur sat listening in silence, her heart thrumming with excitement, a wedding!—and they were tasked with beautifying things, making this place worthy of the presence of the gods for a night. Her tail could hardly fight the delight that shot through her and spurred it to sway behind her, she looked to Y'var'la out of the corner of her eye to gauge the other woman's feelings on the matter.

Already, Pangur was drawing plans for the glen, imagining how the colours would pair with the serene winter snow. She looked again to Harkonungr, dipping her head with utmost respect, and a cheery grin. It will be beautiful, Harkonungr. We will do the finest of jobs.

No mistakes could afford to be made, Pangur would have to scrounge up every bit of botanical knowledge from the corners of her brain. Or- perhaps Y'var'la would shine in that regard instead. She found herself eager to work with her in this task.

Wolves of honour. It was quite the prize; but Pangur felt compelled beyond her own rise for this. The gods would supp with them, bless their union and the sacred place that Forneskja had become. The motivation burned like fire in her soul.

His message was clear—both an offering and a challenge—and the weight of it settled upon her with the gravity of a thousand unsung prayers. A wedding, he said. The first snow to fall, marking a union, and she, along with Pangur, were tasked with preparing the sacred grounds. It was an honor, undeniable, yet the task itself… a delicate art. The gods would be present, their eyes upon this place. For the sake of the gods—and the forneskja—she would give nothing less than perfection.

Her gaze remained cool and steady, though inside, she felt the familiar stirrings of anticipation. The mention of the Nornir was not lost on her, nor the importance of what they wove. Skuld, Urd, Verdandi—those who shaped the threads of fate. They demanded reverence, precision.

She turned her head to Pangur, catching the gleam of excitement in the other wolf’s eyes. Her enthusiasm was palpable, but Y'var'la’s mind already moved ahead, calculating the flow of the task. There would be no room for mistakes.

"Flowers," she murmured, as though tasting the word. "Spider silk. Ivy." Each item rolled off her tongue like a challenge in itself, each more fragile than it seemed. The glen would be beautiful, yes—but it must also be worthy. Worthy of the gods. Worthy of their gaze.

Her eyes studied Sólhárr for a moment, gauging the sincerity of his offer. Wolves of honor. It was a prize she could not ignore, though the way he said it—half a command, half an invitation—struck her as both a gift and a test. She was no stranger to proving herself. No stranger to showing her worth through the careful mastery of her surroundings. And yet, the thought of such an honor being bestowed upon her… it stirred something deeper. Ambition? Perhaps.

"Forneskja thrives when it is bound together," she said, her voice smooth, like silk against the cold air. "And so too shall this place. It will be fit for the gods’ presence, as it always should be." She spoke with certainty, her words deliberate as she turned her gaze to the snow-laden trees. The task was clear. The stakes—clearer still.

sólhárr watched the two women with a steady gaze, his single golden eye flicking between them as they each spoke. pangur’s eagerness was apparent, her enthusiasm almost infectious, while y’var’la’s calm precision balanced the weight of the task ahead. the contrast between them pleased him—both fire and ice, bound to a shared purpose.

he let out a low huff, his breath misting in the cold air. it will be beautiful, he rumbled, echoing pangur’s words with a note of satisfaction. the gods will see your work, and they will know the strength of forneskja.

he stepped forward, his massive frame casting a long shadow over the snow-dusted ground, and dipped his head slightly toward them both—a rare gesture of acknowledgment.

when this is done, your efforts will not go unnoticed. his gaze lingered on y’var’la, then pangur. you will have earned your ranks. forneskja rewards those who prove their worth.

he straightened, the weight of his expectations settling over them like a mantle. now go. make the glen ready. make it worthy.

exit the man

She turned then to Y'var'la as the Harkonungr took his leave, leaning closer from the side Shall we make the plans then? She queried with an excited twang on her tongue. We could go together, or divide it between ourselves. golden shoulders rolled as she mulled over the visions she had of the altar in it's decorated glory, of the glen covered with sprawling ivy and bound with silk.

Too many ideas! She shook her head, intent to not get too far ahead of herself; there was collaboration to be done!

We will need many flowers.. It almost daunted her, the weight of this responsibility, but she had faith everything would work out. It always did, lucky Pangur.

Y’var’la watched Sólhárr depart, his form retreating into the pale winter mist, his words lingering like the echo of a bell. Make it worthy. The command rang in her ears, heavy with expectation. She had no intention of disappointing the gods—or the Harkonungr.

Pangur’s voice broke through her thoughts, brimming with excitement as always. Y’var’la turned her head slightly, her cool gaze meeting the golden wolf’s vibrant one. The contrast between them was stark, like flame meeting frost, but it was a dynamic that often bore fruit. Pangur’s energy, her endless enthusiasm, was contagious even to her.

“Together,” Y’var’la replied, her tone measured, though a faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips.  It wasn’t often Y’var’la invited such open collaboration, but this task was sacred. “The flowers will take the most effort. We’ll need to gather enough moonflowers to line the altar and more to scatter across the glen. They bloom strongest under the moon, so we should start as night falls.”

She paused, her gaze drifting to the snow-dappled trees around them, already imagining the glen transformed. “The ivy can be gathered during the day—it’s hardy even in winter. And the spider silk… that will require care.”

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super late im so sorry :') feel free fade into something new!