Silvertip Mountain Through the big top tent up high

the air was thick with the unmistakable tang of a wanderer accustomed to blood and grit. he followed the trail with purpose, cresting a hill to spot the other male—a wiry figure, hard-edged, with a squint that spoke to a life lived in the darker corners of the world. the flash of coral beneath his heavy brow marked him distinctly, and sólhárr’s own posture stiffened as he took in the sight.

as the stranger approached, sólhárr inclined his head, meeting his formal greeting with a steady, unyielding look. this was not a wolf seeking family, nor a wayward traveler; the gleam in his eye spoke of a man used to following trails, hunting his own kind. still, sólhárr respected the directness, the lack of pretense. if nothing else, it was the sort of attitude he could work with.

forneskja is nearby, my land. hough his voice was gruff, edged with the authority he wore like a mantle he let the words hang, a quiet declaration as much as it was an answer. you’ve wandered close.

he took a step forward, his gaze appraising, noting the stranger’s confident stance. and you? don’t look like you’re here for kin or hearth. his tone softened, almost intrigued. seeking work, or just trouble?