Neverwinter Forest and i sit on the curb 'cause it's the prettiest night

the call split the cold air. sólhárr heard it, felt it settle deep in his chest like the weight of a challenge.

his ears flicked, golden eye narrowing as he stepped forward, broad chest pushing through the snow, leaving a path carved by his heavy frame. the forest of vikings did not welcome strangers easily. not without proof. not without purpose.

when he came upon her, he did not slow. who calls? his voice was low, rough as stone, laced with the weight of ownership. his claim here was absolute.

he stood tall before her, the full breadth of him cast in the dim light. scars wove stories across his dark fur, testaments to battles fought and won. the wind carried his scent—of frost and blood, of the north, of a man who did not yield.

this is not a place for wanderers, he stated, eyes sharp as he measured her. speak your purpose, or turn back.