Shadewood the wood's labyrinth

Qvasir shifted his bulk, the tension in his broad shoulders easing only slightly as he cast a brief glance at Cormorant. His golden eyes were sharp but tired, as though weighed down by the truths he carried.

The wolves of La Muerte… they left, he said, his deep voice rough with the scrape of disuse. The admission was blunt, unflinching, yet carried no bitterness. It was simply the way of things.

His gaze dropped again to the ground, as if the earth itself might offer some unspoken wisdom. I am alone, he added in a low rumble, the words as solid and immovable as the sentinel himself.

He stood silent after that, letting the weight of his presence fill the space between them. For Qvasir, words were rarely needed; his story was etched in his scars, his stance, and the unyielding strength of his solitude.