Neverwinter Forest get on up again,

Luhtar’s steps slowed slightly as Sólhárr's words settled over him, their weight not heavy but grounding. The tension in his shoulders eased, and his ears twitched faintly. For the first time that morning, he let himself breathe deeply, the crisp air filling his lungs as his restlessness began to wane.

“You’re right,” he said after a long pause, his voice quieter now, the rough edges smoothed. It wasn’t often Luhtar conceded, but there was no fight left in him. “Maybe not every fight needs to be fought.”

The quiet admission surprised even him, but it felt honest in a way that few of his words did. Sólhárr's calm, his steadfast presence—it wasn’t something Luhtar had always known growing up in the North, but it was something he could learn to appreciate. The North was still with him, always would be, but perhaps Sólhárr was right.

He let the silence stretch for a moment, then shook his head, a faint huff escaping him.

Turning his yellow eyes back to Solharr, Luhtar tilted his head slightly, his expression lighter now, almost curious. “Tell me about the woods, then. Forneskja. The stories. The roots, the canopy.” He gestured vaguely with his muzzle, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “These trees have lived longer than either of us. What is it they’ve seen?”

The shift in conversation was deliberate, his way of letting Sólhárr know he’d heard him, that the unease had lifted. There was still much Luhtar didn’t understand, but for now, he was content to listen—to let the quiet of the forest fill the spaces where the storm usually roared.