Neverwinter Forest Keep the knife close while you sleep.

sólhárr’s gaze was unyielding as he took in the stranger’s stance and words. there was no submission in this one’s posture, no flicker of hesitation in his claim. yet, in forneskja, only one name held weight. he stepped forward, his shadow cast long and imposing in the filtered light.

me, he answered, the word a low rumble, steady as stone. hárkonungr of forneskja, his presence seemed to declare without the need for further words, the weight of authority embedded in his voice.

the stranger’s path, whatever his mission, would bend here. the unspoken command lingered between them: he would follow.