Neverwinter Forest call to arms; pack meeting [11.21.2024]

The resonant howl reached Y’var’la’s ears like a strand of silk pulled taut across the forest. It was commanding, yes, but it carried a warmth that tethered her thoughts. She didn’t hurry—there was no need. Her steps left delicate imprints upon the forest floor as she wove through the familiar labyrinth of pines and undergrowth.

When she arrived at the glen, she paused just beyond the treeline, her gaze sweeping the scene with discerning sharpness. Solharr and Callyope stood upon the ancient stone, their figures framed by the twilight’s glow, the moon’s light brushing their pelts with reverence. Her nostrils flared slightly, catching the subtle mingling scents of gathered wolves. Forneskja was assembling.

With a slow, deliberate stride, she entered the clearing, her slender figure cutting a graceful path through the moonlit space. Her pale eyes glimmered, taking in the mix of wolves as they filtered in, each settling in a way that suited their temperament. Finding a spot neither at the edges nor too central, she settled herself with her limbs folded beneath her. Y’var’la’s lips quirked, ever so slightly, in acknowledgment. For all her aloofness, she felt the stirrings of pride—a quiet ember that warmed her chest. She had chosen to be here, among these wolves, and that decision had been hers alone.

For now, she would listen, her sharp gaze fixed on the leaders. Every word would be weighed, every subtle movement observed. Y’var’la was no follower to blindly accept, but she knew the value of unity—and of understanding. This pack was her new home, and it was her duty—no, her ambition—to understand it in every detail.

As the murmurs of movement quieted and the glen stilled, Y’var’la let her focus settle on Solharr. Whatever words he and Callyope chose to share tonight, she was prepared to listen.