Neverwinter Forest where the moon sets

sólhárr listened intently, his head slightly inclined as rökkur’s voice wove the threads of wisdom into something tangible. the hárkonungr’s yellowed eyes glinted in the moonlight, their usual sharpness softened by thoughtfulness. each word the sögumaðr spoke felt like it was plucking at strings inside him, striking chords of ambition and caution alike.

the moon of bogmaður, sólhárr murmured, rolling the phrase over his tongue as though tasting its weight. he straightened slightly, absorbing the meaning of rökkur’s guidance. ambition, patience, and precision. his voice held no question—only the echo of affirmation.

his gaze flickered upward to the moon hanging above them, its light dappling the moongrove in a silvery sheen. the waning gibbous stood watch, quiet yet commanding. he exhaled, a low sound in the stillness of the grove, his breath visible in the cool night air. the máni has her wisdom, always. i will heed her counsel.

sólhárr turned his gaze back to rökkur, the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth betraying the gratitude that swelled in his chest. your words are taken deeply, rökkur. they are reminders of what i must hold true to. this place, my wolves. his voice lowered, quiet but steady. and my wife.

there was a pause, a lingering note of something unspoken, before he tilted his head. how does she fare? callyope, he asked, his voice softening further at her name. she has been ever busy—melding herself to her tasks and her circle of women. i see her less.

though his tone remained steady, the flicker in his eyes betrayed his yearning to know. what do the gods say?