Neverwinter Forest störf

sólhárr stood atop the weathered boulder in the glen, the moonflowers at its edges casting a faint glow around his hulking form. his golden eye, sharp and discerning, moved from pangur to y’var’la as they arrived. their differences were stark—pangur, bright and bounding, and y’var’la, quiet as snowfall. together, they were balance, and forneskja thrived on balance.

he dipped his head slightly in greeting, his voice rumbling low as he began. pangur. y’var’la. my wedding. it comes with first snow.

he shifted, his gaze sweeping the glen as though envisioning the ceremony. his words were measured, deliberate, his broken common tongue a testament to his effort to reach them in their shared language.

for this, i give you task. flowers, he gestured with a broad paw to the moonflowers, these. bright. alive. we use for altar.

he paused, his gaze flicking between them to ensure understanding. spider silk. strong. it will bind offerings. ivy—green. wrap it around.

his voice deepened, imbued with meaning. this is for nornir. skuld, urd, verdandi. their tapestry grows with our choice. he stepped down from the boulder, standing before them with an air of command. you bring these. decorate the glen. make ready for gods and forneskja.

a sly grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he added, you do this well, and i give you ranks. not just wolves of forneskja. wolves of honor.