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 lately, he found himself withdrawn, as if the moon wished to whisper something to him, and him alone.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?

tw for implications of suicide (?)

it is wintertime, hárkonungr, nightman offered, as if that were to mean anything at all to the king who stood before him. voice was low, rumbling from his chest akin to echoes within a cave. just as quickly as he drew a breath it returned to the air in the form of a sigh, scarlet eyes betraying something distant, something withdrawn.

and, as if he had made a decision in but a split second, he relinquished a part of his past: much training was done in wintertime, he murmured. unpleasant memories threaten to resurface ; i do not choose to withdraw, to hide away. it is as if the silence of isolation calls to me, like a sirens song, rökkur shook his head, now, as if ashamed with himself. knowing that he should work harder, revere the moon above as is his way of living, but his den and the darkness within it beckon him to an eternal sleep.

but when he rested his weary head, it seemed that it was sleep that he was chasing. he gave a huff, now, turning away from the sunfire man and moving towards the boulder that sat within the holy clearing. facing it with ruby eyes ; a gaze that had seen much in what seemed to be such a short timeframe. you came to me with purpose, sólhárr. tell me, what is it that you seek from her grace? he looked up, then, at máni's light.

the weight of rökkur’s words sinking deep into the marrow of his bones. there was something familiar in the other’s weary resignation, something that stirred both sympathy and the need to anchor him to the present.

with slow, deliberate steps, he moved closer, his golden eye unwavering. he stood tall, unyielding as ever, but his movements betrayed a rare softness, a quiet understanding. when he reached rökkur, he did not speak at first. instead, he pressed close, the warmth of his massive frame a stark contrast to the biting chill of winter around them.

it is alright here, he murmured lowly, his voice a steady rumble that carried both assurance and something more. his muzzle lowered, brushing gently against the fur of rökkur’s neck before pressing a lingering kiss there, a gesture both intimate and grounding. the scent of the other, earthy and faintly wild, mingled with the frost-drenched air.

máni speaks through us both, sól whispered, his breath warm against rökkur’s fur. i pray she will bless my union with @Callyope. i wish for her light to guide us forward, to keep the darkness at bay.

his lone eye flickered upward toward the pale glow of the moon, a reverence in his gaze that softened the sharpness of his features. yet he did not pull away from rökkur, his presence unwavering, grounding them both in the quiet sanctity of the clearing.

i would like you to bless it, sögumaðr.

blushes ? ; tag for mention

the touch, the warmth, was unexpected from what once was the moons' soldier. now, as her speaker, her keeper of stories and teller of tales, he let himself bask beneath her glow, and hummed as he was gifted a kiss by hárkonungr. an intimacy that he did not ever think would bless his scarred skin, especially by a man whose wedding was so soon. though the action was not romantic in nature, rather a bond forged between the two ; something that rökkur hoped to be unbreakable.

his breath was warm, lingering against the lightened traces of blood and war beneath his pelt. he wished for máni to bless his union, and it took no time for sögumaðr to hear her whispers in the way her breezes rustled the treetops, lilted the pale flowers, softened the bite of the winter and reaffirmed their presence within the grove. and it was then that the king of neverwinter asked for rökkur, once a man of shadows, to bless their marriage, their ceremony ; and so his heart came alive with this task that did not feel quite impossible. rather, it bloomed a warmth within his chest, knowing that he was thought worthy of the duty. worthy of bestowing a prayer on máni's behalf.

i will, and he was smiling, then. though not a large grin, it seemed that the exhaustion had been drawn from his bones, perhaps alight with this new task. though his voice never raised from a murmur, deeming the volume of the night to be carefully maintained, there was a clear happiness that shone behind a scarlet gaze. do you require anything, sólhárr? stones, plants, the like? would you care for any particular words, any story told or words to commemorate such a union? a planners words.

he wondered, then, where it would be taking place.

this is good, sögumaðr, he exclaimed, stepping closer to clap rökkur’s shoulder with firm affection. the moon’s speaker carried his task with reverence, and the hárkonungr could not be more pleased. the women have been collecting moonflowers to light the path; the men have hunted well, hides and meats enough to honor all who gather. your prayer will be the binding force.

he lifted his muzzle, his gaze sweeping the frozen expanse. at our borders, beneath the great stone. the light of máni will bless us, and her spirits will come to visit. they will bear witness to the union—of callyope and myself, of forneskja and moonglow.

his tail gave a single, commanding sway as he returned his attention to rökkur, voice softer but no less resolute. find words that will tie us to them, to máni. let her voice echo through your prayer, forever binding her glow to our home. it will be her will, through you, that unites us.

he paused, the frost of his breath curling in the air, then added with a faint smirk, and if it pleases the moon, let her bless this hárkonungr with many strong children.

it seemed that the gathering had been completed, then, and it was up to the words of sögumaðr to bind them, to bring them together as the gods foretold. he thought that maybe @Kinusi would care to sing, or to tell some of her stories when it was indubitably time to feast, as such was deserved by king and queen of forneskja, daughter of moonglow and son of such similar mountains that it felt that all of the northern pack had hailed from. a kinship that coursed through them all, a sense of familiarity.

they will bear witness, and so he nodded. bear witness, they will! for this was a moment for celebration ; an opportunity for him to grow a different association to that of the wintertime, and to instead allow himself to be enveloped by such a happiness, such a beautiful union that he could not, would not permit the invasion of countless red memories. my voice will be hers, he said. firm. resolute. she guided him, swayed the trees and let the birds sing what he needed to hear. the nights that the clouds hid her face away were sleepless, prayerless, and so he would hope that the night of their wedding would be clear, without storm nor wind in sight, a still moment of sacred union.

she will bring fertility upon those in which are blessed by her, rökkur smiled, then, knowing from callyope's words that she wished to have many. small whelps painted in ice and fire, mewling, growing, running throughout the forest just as the founders before them, growing, having children of their own someday. children that would carry on the legacy of forneskja. a dream that part of him hoped to have for himself, too. and so it is many strong, brave children that you will receive, hárkonungr. a look of knowing.

the sögumaðr’s blessings were weighty, imbued with the grace of the máni herself, and sólhárr bowed his head slightly in reverence to the moment.

your words carry the strength of the gods, rökkur, he said, his voice low and warm, the faintest flicker of a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. may the máni look upon you with the same favor. may she bless you with children who will rise strong, who will honor her and forneskja with every breath.

he stepped closer, the space between them closing in a gesture of camaraderie and trust. his massive frame cast a protective shadow, but his touch was gentle as he rested a paw briefly on rökkur’s shoulder, a sign of respect and gratitude.

thank you, my friend. your voice, your faith—they are gifts to us all. this union will be bound as the gods intend, and forneskja will flourish beneath their light.

sólhárr’s gaze lifted momentarily to the heavens, as though seeking the eye of the máni herself. the light of the moon filtered through the trees, illuminating the sacred space where their union would take place. his attention returned to rökkur, resolute and unwavering.

together, we ensure her will. together, we make it so.

fade in your next?

and it was with thankful words that the winterking would speak, and it was with listening ears that the lorekeeper would listen. man of sun and fire sought a prayer from their night lady, calling for the man of shadows to have his own children, too, strong and honourable. at that, he smiled, having heard the implication of permission granted, should he one day wish to rear whelps of his own, with a partner that he cared for.

so it will be done, rökkur replied, thankful to know that forneskja will flourish. soon, its roots will spread and grow, rising through the earth as the seedlings of the future generations sprout, slowly, and mark forneskja a place of many wolves, both northern and not. of blood, of family, of safety. and now, a place of a union that many will look upon, that many will celebrate for the seasons to come. honoured, revered.

a firm nod, together, came his words. and so he said: goodnight, sólhárr,, before he gave the king a nudge and turning away to his den, drawing himself towards it so that he may rest, hoping for his moondreams to whisper prayers found suitable for the pair.