Silvertip Mountain Through the big top tent up high

sólhárr’s gaze remained steady, appraising the man before him with the quiet intensity of someone who understood both strength and caution. the man's flat tone and lack of charm didn’t deter him; if anything, sólhárr found it refreshing, a reminder that not all who crossed these lands came with flowery words or unnecessary pleasantries. he inclined his head, acknowledging the man’s words without offering immediate judgment.

troubled or not, sólhárr replied, his voice carrying a rough edge, that depends on the eyes looking. he let the words hang, giving the stranger a moment to weigh them. he could see the scars, the hardened look that spoke of a life on the edge, and sólhárr knew well the kind of man who wore such marks. they did not waste time with meaningless words, nor did they often come with simple intentions.

forneskja is a land that knows strength, he continued, his tone more direct, and it welcomes those who bring it. he paused, letting a faint smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. but it doesn’t suffer trouble lightly.

he took a step closer, his blue amber gaze piercing as he regarded the man. so, if you’re here for work, dregnr, then speak of it plainly.