Neverwinter Forest Keep the knife close while you sleep.

sólhárr watched the stranger from his vantage, a stony, silent sentinel beneath the dense pines. he was no stranger to the weight a man carried after a lifetime of oaths—promises made, perhaps, to ghosts. but in these lands, beneath the cold gaze of the northern stars, the only truth lay in what was earned.

he approached, his steps deliberate, bearing down upon the stranger with the full weight of his presence—a towering figure, shadows shifting across his darkened fur like the earth itself moving. his eyes bore into the man, unyielding, measuring. 

sólhárr had seen many pass through these woods, some with purpose, others chasing the last whispers of forgotten duties. but there was something different in the way this one moved, as if he drifted not through territory but memory, each step shedding an old life.

sólhárr's voice, deep and rumbled like distant thunder, broke the silence. this is no place for aimless wandering. he tilted his head, a challenge in his stare. what are you here to earn?

the question hung heavily between them, an invitation—or a threat. it mattered not which way the man would take it, for in the north, actions spoke louder than words.