Neverwinter Forest sleep of the sword

Fjall shrunk in on himself and envisioned his own body supplicant, submissive before the shadow of his Maker.

The mountain.

Moonglow came to mind as his yielding feet turned towards the distant moonpack. He found himself wavering— moving past the founding village, towards the omnipresent spire of its first sister-pack, then back towards Moonglow, and back again towards the tower of Moonspear. A curious raven followed the progress of the gilded wolf, who seemed drunk from above.

As the miles fell away beneath his feet, Fjall found the courage to speak more to the wild spirit. O Fearsome One, he hummed, a hymn. I am your humble vassal. Your steward. Your carrier. I feel you. I hear you. I do as you bid. The mountain. The mountain. The mountain. I beg for your protection.

He continued to whisper to the spirit, pouring his heart and soul to the divinity that had settled upon his shoulders.