Deepwood Weald in my world,

sólhárr stood silently in the mist, watching her, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he observed the soft, almost otherworldly way she moved. she was delicate, drifting through the haze like a creature born of fog and silence, and yet something about her held an edge—a strength tempered by the way she moved, as if held aloft by faith alone. he admired that; faith was something to be tested, sharpened, proven.

when her voice broke the quiet, soft but searching, sólhárr let himself step forward, emerging from the shadows of the mist with a deliberate slowness. you walk in strange lands, he murmured, his tone low, almost a rumble in the thick, misty air.

his gaze held hers steadily, an intense but respectful interest gleaming beneath his composed exterior. these woods aren’t often kind to those wandering alone, he continued, voice softened by the faintest hint of warmth, a silent acknowledgement of the spirit he sensed in her.

sólhárr, he offered by way of introduction, inclining his head. and you? what brings you here, to forneskja?