Neverwinter Forest In the Woods Somewhere

Getting back into the swing of this guy so the writing might be a bit off sorry sob
For @Solharr <33

Many months had passed since the burial of what the wolf believed to be the little lynx girl, now only a memory entwined with the scent of damp earth and funeral flowers. Yet since then, the mountains had never drifted far from view. Their silvered spires loomed on the horizon, always just in the corner of the wolf's eye as if they might stumble upon Mesen-Ka and his children once more if only they lingered long enough.

Did they truly want to find him again, though? After all, it had been he who had sent Moss on the search for their wayward daughter only to leave them to deal with the body without so much as a word. The thought lay heavy on him, tangled somewhere between resentment and sadness, too murky and complicated to untangle in the quiet of this particular autumn night.

The small wolf nosed his way into a patch of forest, where the trunks of the trees gathered close, their branches knitting together into a near impenetrable canopy. Beneath them, they found a hollow between roots, an inviting little dip in the earth, warm and dark. He eased himself down, curling into a tight ball, pink tongue pulling over sore legs and hips that ached from the cold.

sólhárr moved quietly through the dense woods, his gaze sharp as he caught the faintest scent of another—a stranger, small and unfamiliar, settling themselves within the heart of forneskja’s sacred grounds. he advanced with the silent precision of one accustomed to guarding his borders, his steps careful yet purposeful as he closed the distance.

through the intertwining branches, he glimpsed a figure curled beneath the trees, delicate and worn, their frame so slight it seemed almost part of the earth itself. sólhárr paused, taking in the sight of them nestled against the roots, like something that belonged to the forest yet foreign in its presence. with measured intent, he allowed himself to step forward, announcing himself with the quiet rustle of his approach.

you’re far from any familiar ground, he spoke, voice low but steady, a gentle weight in each word. he could see the tiredness in the set of their limbs, the faint shiver beneath their fur. this is forneskja, and i am sólhárr. he kept his tone even, though his gaze remained fixed, assessing.

who are you, then, to rest here so freely? he asked, his words more curiosity than threat, watching closely as he waited for their response.

Hearing the soft crunch of approaching pawsteps, Moss went still as a stone, heart pounding in their chest like the beating wings of some trapped, frantic bird. Not in the least bit eager to get eaten by whatever formidable beast was making its way toward him, he sank low to the ground, tucking his paws close, his whole body pressed tight and tense, hoping that with all of the dust and grit caked onto his thin coat, he might pass for some odd-shaped rock or unfortunate heap of inedible bones.

But luck, as it often seemed to go, was a fickle creature, and his camouflage did not hold. A dark face emerged from the brambles, sharp eyes fixed exactly on him.

Yet, instead of snarling fangs or a warning growl, words met his ears.

Apologies for the intrusion, Mr. Solharr, Moss replied quickly, their voice thin with fatigue, betraying the edge of sleep they had found themself upon. He dipped his head respectfully, tail tucking low. I’m called Moss. It wasn’t my intention to trespass—must have missed the markers somewhere along the way. Another bow of his head, shoulders tight as they stood slowly to take a half step back. I’ll, uh… I’ll take my leave, then, he finished, hoping beyond hope that he wasn't about to be turned into an actual unfortunate pile of bones, and if he was, that Mr. Solharr would have the mercy to at least be quick about it.

sólhárr stepped closer, his gaze sharp and unyielding as he studied the other's form before him. his nose twitched, pulling in the faint scent of the stranger—no pack, no claim, no ties. it was telling. a wanderer, alone. his blue hued eyes narrowed, his brow arching as he considered moss's quick words, desperate for exit.

no scent, sólhárr murmured, almost to himself, though his voice carried enough weight for the stranger to hear. so you’re alone. his words were steady, not cruel, but there was no softness in them. solitude in these lands was a gamble, and sólhárr had no patience for recklessness near his borders.

no need to flee. he said, not wanting to shy away a potential member. sólhárr would be a fool to not let wolves who could do work stick around.

winter is upon us. forneskja is in need of hands.

Moss stilled, an ache stirring in their chest, an echo of Kvarsheim and the packmates he had once called family, and more recently, the lake with all its ties cut too short too soon. The thought of tethering himself once more, only to face another inevitable heartbreak, was not something the small wolf was ready to commit to, especially not so soon after the cinnamon girl's death.

And yet, Mr. Solharr’s words carried a practical truth, whether they wanted to admit it or not. Winter crept closer each day, each dawn colder than the last, and Moss was no longer the spry young creature he once fancied himself to be. Hunting alone had always been a gamble, and lately, the odds had grown steeper with every passing season—and every passing leg—until each hunt felt more like a test of survival, and less the fun test of skill it had once been.

He hesitated, thinking, before cautiously stepping forward, his slender frame brushing the trunk of the tree he had rested beneath. Their nose twitched, drawing in the scents that clung to the younger man’s burnished coat, and taking note of the stoic air that seemed to cling about him.

What sort of help do you need? Moss asked at last, his voice soft, the words nearly reluctant, but carrying a flicker of something that the wolf was not ready to name—something that others might call hope.

sólhárr’s gaze softened as the slender wolf stepped forward, their frame marked by weariness but carrying a flicker of something deeper—perhaps a reluctant will to survive. he listened carefully to the words spoken, his sharp eyes scanning their features.

we need a bit of everything, he admitted, his voice steady but laced with warmth. his gaze drifted briefly, thoughts flickering to his elska and the approaching cold season. the time ahead would be harsh, unforgiving. it was in his nature to think practically, and this wolf—small and worn as they were—might have the skill to offer what forneskja would need.

hunters, for one, he continued, his blue eyes meeting theirs. but also wolves who can scout, carry news, watch over the land. forneskja is a place for those willing to work, but it’s also a place for those willing to learn.

he paused, his tone softening further. i can offer you a warm nest, a share of the hunt, and the safety of a pack. if you’re willing to stand with us, we’ll stand with you. his tail swayed once, a rare gesture of encouragement.

Moss tilted his head thoughtfully, their ears twitching as they absorbed the man’s words. A quiet, almost apologetic smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as his gaze dropped, a flicker of sheepishness crossing his face. I’m, uh, not much of a hunter these days, he admitted with a chuckle, voice soft as he turned to waggle the stump where a leg had once been, the gesture playful, though a touch of self-deprecation lingered beneath it.

But—I’m a fair tracker—I've got a good nose, and good eyes too. I know just what to look for when the trail's gone cold.

There was a pause, then a flicker of animation brightened their features as their tail gave an eager sway. And if you’re still setting up camp, I can lend a paw there, they offered, tone taking on an edge of enthusiasm. I’ve also spent my fair share of time caring of elders and pups—keeping the little ones out of trouble and making sure the old ones are comfortable. His words hung briefly in the air, hesitation giving him pause before he added, Burial rites too, if... if those ever become necessary.

I've been traveling since I was knee high to a flea, so I've picked up a bit from here and there, a bit of a jack of all trades if I do say so myself.

sólhárr’s sharp gaze dropped to the stump moss presented, his breath hitching for a moment before he exhaled an almost inaudible, sorry, under his breath. the sight stirred something unspoken in him, a flicker of sympathy tempered by respect for the way moss carried themselves despite the loss.

but it was the mention of caring for pups that truly caught his attention. his ears pricked forward, his stance shifting slightly, as if the weight of moss’s words had settled differently within him. pups, he murmured, nodding slowly. we could use that. the young need guidance. patience. attention. his words, though gruff, carried an undercurrent of approval.

and then, burial rites. his golden gaze lingered on moss, assessing the weight of their offer. for a moment, sólhárr was silent, a reverent pause that spoke volumes. we do have need for that, he said finally, his voice low, serious. the dead must be honored properly. their spirits guided. this is a task of great importance. the dead would need solace.

a jack of all trades, he echoed the phrase, not hearing it before. he coined it for himself— moss, jack of all trades. you are a gift, it seems.

he straightened, his usual intensity softening just slightly as he regarded moss. you may find your place here, if you wish it. a flicker of something—approval, perhaps—crossed his expression.