Neverwinter Forest trinkets

solharr’s golden eye burned against the frost as he regarded the auburn-flamed woman. her voice reached him through the chilled air, her words carrying the cadence of the north. the recognition tugged faintly at the corners of his mind—a familiarity not of person, but of place, of shared roots.

he did not rush to answer, letting the silence stretch between them for a moment before his lips parted, his voice rough but steady.

já, við deilum, he rumbled, his tone low but not unkind. he gestured with a subtle tilt of his muzzle toward the forest beyond them, as if to show the breadth of what he spoke of. his gaze did not waver, weighing her, measuring her, as he added with purpose, en orð þurfa að vera sterk. þetta er ekki staður fyrir veikleika.

then he stilled, awaiting her response, the sharpness in his eyes softened only slightly by the faintest edge of curiosity.