Neverwinter Forest Keep the knife close while you sleep.

each clawed strike into the earth showing his impatience more than his endurance. he leaned back, silent, the breadth of his chest rising and falling steadily, keeping to himself the biting words that crowded his mind. the frost-hardened ground resisted every scrape, and the crater grew wider but remained empty.

you’re digging for ghosts, he muttered, his voice a rumble barely louder than the cracking roots. his patience was thin, yes, but he had the years to bear it.

when the man  turned his attention to yet another spot, sólhárr's eyes followed, measuring the futility of each attempt. if you dig in my land, he added, but it was not anger that spurred him, only the faint amusement of one who had already learned that not every hole holds treasure. be prepared to find roots thicker than you expect.

another pause, another shifting of the ground. perhaps it was his age, his own scars beneath his coat, but sólhárr knew that not all things buried were meant to be brought back into the light.