Whitefish River but I stay outside his reach

sólhárr listened to her words, his single golden eye fixed on her with an intensity that seemed to weigh the truth of every syllable. his ears flicked as she mentioned her father, a chief’s son, and the training she claimed to have received. the mention of midwifery, however, caused a faint shift in his expression—almost a flicker of amusement, though it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

we have healers, he said simply, his tone even. midwives, medics, seiðkona. enough to care for the sick and welcome new life. what forneskja lacks is not in the art of healing but in strength.

he rose then, towering above her, his broad frame casting a long shadow over the snow. if you say you’ve been taught to fight, i believe. learn if you must, but earn your place through action, not words.

his gaze swept over her, assessing, before softening just slightly. you’re young, and forneskja can teach those willing. warriors are forged through struggle. fight for us, and you’ll find your worth here. refuse, and there’s nothing more to say.

he stepped back, allowing her space, his tail swaying once in a measured motion. decide quickly. the mountains do not wait for the hesitant.