Neverwinter Forest In the Woods Somewhere

Moss stilled, an ache stirring in their chest, an echo of Kvarsheim and the packmates he had once called family, and more recently, the lake with all its ties cut too short too soon. The thought of tethering himself once more, only to face another inevitable heartbreak, was not something the small wolf was ready to commit to, especially not so soon after the cinnamon girl's death.

And yet, Mr. Solharr’s words carried a practical truth, whether they wanted to admit it or not. Winter crept closer each day, each dawn colder than the last, and Moss was no longer the spry young creature he once fancied himself to be. Hunting alone had always been a gamble, and lately, the odds had grown steeper with every passing season—and every passing leg—until each hunt felt more like a test of survival, and less the fun test of skill it had once been.

He hesitated, thinking, before cautiously stepping forward, his slender frame brushing the trunk of the tree he had rested beneath. Their nose twitched, drawing in the scents that clung to the younger man’s burnished coat, and taking note of the stoic air that seemed to cling about him.

What sort of help do you need? Moss asked at last, his voice soft, the words nearly reluctant, but carrying a flicker of something that the wolf was not ready to name—something that others might call hope.