Silvertip Mountain Through the big top tent up high

sólhárr’s brows lifted slightly as he listened to catamaran speak his native tongue, the familiar cadence stirring something deep within him. it was rare to encounter another wolf here who knew his language, let alone someone with such a solid, practical demeanor as this bounty hunter. there was a shared history in their words, a sense of kinship that sólhárr hadn’t expected.

well met, catamaran, he replied, nodding with a faint smile, his tone carrying an unusual warmth. your grandmother’s spirit walks familiar paths, then. it’s good to know our tongues aren’t entirely lost here.

sólhárr gestured for catamaran to follow as he began to lead him toward forneskja’s heart. forneskja is a land of strength and tradition, he explained, slipping naturally into the dialect they shared. we live with respect for the earth and for each other, bound by the balance of what we take and give. each season has its purpose—winter is our time to endure, to rely on each other. and when spring returns, we honor the land and the lives that keep us strong.

he glanced back, studying catamaran’s reaction as he continued. we have a circle here, a place of spirituality tended by my elska and the women of forneskja. it’s a sacred space, untouched by men, where our traditions and the wisdom of the earth are kept. his tone held a note of reverence, a respect for the ways that bound them to something larger.

those who hunt, those who guard, and those who heal are all valued in forneskja. so long as you respect our ways, you’ll find shelter and purpose here, sólhárr said, a quiet confidence lacing his words. but tell me, catamaran—what traditions do you keep, coming from the blackmouth?