Silvertip Mountain Through the big top tent up high

sólhárr listened carefully, taking in each detail with a quiet respect. the concept of a matriarchal, war-bound pack was not foreign to him, though he found himself intrigued by the intensity of blackmouth’s ways. a pack where men were visitors, permitted only at the edge, and where warrior women held the reins—such structure was its own kind of strength, a lineage honed by battle and guarded by fierce loyalty.

the sea has bred its share of warriors, sólhárr replied, his tone thoughtful, catching the glint of history in catamaran’s words. and violence—always violence along the bay. he knew that such a place forged wolves like stone under pressure; he could see that resilience in catamaran now, carried in the cautious, steady way he moved through the forest.

sólhárr paused, casting a glance around the thick canopy above them, sensing his companion’s discomfort as they ventured deeper into the shadows of forneskja. he let the silence linger, a quiet acknowledgment of their differences, before speaking again.

you’re welcome here, catamaran, he affirmed, his voice low but carrying a note of certainty. though you’re born of the sea, forneskja is a land that values strength, no matter its source.

fade in your next :)?