Neverwinter Forest i'm beyond the archetype

Kjalarr was a stranger to the orphaned prince, and for just a fraction of a moment, a question formed within his mind: who are you? His mouth moved to form the words, puckering into a soft “o” — but his shell-shocked brain dismissed the query as unimportant. His ears swiveled with mechanical stiffness to gather in the unfamiliar, accented timbre, and after a beat the rest of him followed suit, gore-spattered limbs rearranging themselves to face the Viking with a mannequin’s rigid lifelessness. Cypress blinked slowly, sallow eyes seeming to focus briefly with a sulphureous spark of awareness, but in no time at all they blurred anew with catatonic disinterest. His expression did not alter when Shrike drew near, but at the epsilon’s gentle touch, the haggard raven’s lungs spent themselves in a shuddering sigh and his lengthening muzzle dipped in weary acquiescence. The fledgling’s battered mind, that treacherous taskmaster, hinted in an insidious whisper that there was no point in marking any borders — winter had come early, taking its king and queen with it, and the forest was no longer a kingdom but a sepulcher instead.