Neverwinter Forest atoningwishes

the snow fell in thick, soundless sheets, muffling the world beneath a soft, glistening shroud. night had long since claimed the sky, its velvet expanse pierced only by the cold gleam of stars.

sólhárr moved through the drifts with the practiced ease of one accustomed to the unyielding north. his golden eye shone like a beacon in the darkness, sharp and searching as it swept across the frozen expanse ahead.

he sought y’var’la.

the tasks he had set her upon were not idle whims, and he wished to see for himself how far she had come. the night was a time for truth, for revelation beneath the quiet watch of máni. and so he pressed on, his breath curling in ghostly plumes around him as he followed her trail.

at last, her silhouette emerged in the distance, a shadow against the snow, bent in concentration. sólhárr slowed his stride, his gaze steady, measuring.

Y’var’la’s figure appeared as little more than a wisp in the falling snow, a sharp silhouette against the stark white canvas of the wilderness. She moved with a precision that bordered on obsession, her focus so total it was as though the world itself had fallen away, leaving only the task at hand.

Her breath came in steady plumes, betraying no sign of the cold or fatigue that might have burdened others. The snow underfoot held no secrets from her; she could read the landscape as easily as an open scroll.

She didn’t hear him approach at first, the world muffled in the soft fall of snow, but when she finally sensed the shift in the air, the familiarity of his scent—she straightened. Olive eyes gleamed faintly in the dark, narrowing as she turned her head toward him.

"Solharr," she greeted. There was no trace of surprise in her tone, only the same steady confidence that seemed to hum beneath her skin. She gave him a moment to close the distance.

y'var'la, his voice carried through the snow-dusted air, low and steady as he stepped closer, his golden eye gleaming with intent. he let his gaze sweep over her, noting her focus, her precision. it was admirable, but admiration only went so far.

i think it's time, he continued, his words deliberate, his tone sharp with expectation. you’ve been here long enough to understand our ways. now, you earn your place.

he stopped before her, the weight of his presence settling like the snow around them. tell me, he rumbled, his eye narrowing slightly. are you ready?

Y’var’la met his gaze without hesitation. There was no question in her mind about what he meant—no mistaking the weight of his challenge. She had known this moment was coming, could feel it pressing against her like the cold wind at her back. She had been excited for it.

The snow swirled around them, a silent audience. Her lips curled slightly at the edges, the challenge he laid out before her only sharpening her resolve.

"Yes." she replied smoothly, assured. Her gaze never wavered from his, the cold gleam of her eyes reflecting a quiet, dangerous promise. Her tail flicked behind her as though echoing her words.

She could feel the shift in the air, the slow weight of expectation. "What must I do?"

he allowed a pause to hang between them, letting the weight of the moment settle.

you will hunt, he said, his voice low but commanding. bring back meat for the wedding. not scraps, not half-hearted effort—something worthy of the gods and the union it will honor.

he stepped closer, his massive frame casting a long shadow over the snow-dusted ground. his tone softened, though it lost none of its authority. when you return, if you succeed, you will be náttfari. the night traveler of forneskja.

his gaze lingered on her, measuring, before he nodded faintly. go. show me your resolve.

the command carried no question, only expectation, and the trust that she would rise to meet it.

Y’var’la’s eyes glittered, the challenge in his words igniting a fire in her chest. She felt the gravity of his command settle over her, a weight that stirred something deep within her—something hungry, something far more than simple pride.

She held his gaze as he spoke, absorbing each word, each nuance. Náttfari. The title was a mark of distinction and strength, it would set her apart. It was a commitment. To be the night traveler of Forneskja meant to become something more.

Her lips parted slightly, the flicker of a smile dancing at the edges of her expression. Anticipation. The woman did not do half-hearted efforts—she would lounge when she pleased, but never before the work was done. To serve was to be useful, and she was nothing if not useful.

"Consider it done." 

With a subtle flick of her tail, she turned without another word, stepping lightly through the snow, her form blending into the darkened wilderness around her. She moved with purpose, her strides long and sure as she melted back into the shadows.

she would rise to the challenge, of that he was certain.

the chieftain turned, his oxen fur shifting with the motion as he moved toward the heart of forneskja once more. the night’s quiet enveloped him, and with it came the unspoken assurance that his wolves were strong, their bloodlines enduring, their future bright.

the scene faded into the cool embrace of the forest, sólhárr’s steps firm and deliberate, carrying him forward into the next chapter of his people’s legacy.