Shadewood the wood's labyrinth

Qvasir moved through the frostbitten terrain with a deliberate stride, each pawstep pressing firmly into the brittle earth beneath him. The woodland stretched endlessly ahead, its skeletal trees clawing at the pale sky. It was silent save for the occasional call of a distant bird, a hollow sound that did little to comfort. His pale gaze swept the terrain, scanning every shadow for signs of movement.

He paused atop a ridge where the ground fell away sharply, a vantage point that offered little solace but afforded a clearer view of the horizon. His breath escaped in slow, even puffs, visible in the crisp morning air. Stoic and unmoving, Qvasir stood like a sentinel, his presence a part of the landscape itself.

The faintest shift in the wind carried a new scent—one that was not his own. He turned his head slightly, his ears pricked forward, betraying a sliver of attention amid his otherwise impassive demeanor.

His voice, when it came, was low and measured, cutting through the quiet like a blade through still water. Who’s there?

There was no hostility in his tone, but no invitation either. Qvasir was a wall, unyielding and cold, waiting to see what, or who, might challenge its fortitude.