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

chieftain stood firm.

broad chest puffed with the weight of his station. the cold wind pulled at his thick fur, but he did not waver, did not yield. his golden eye raked over the woman, assessing, measuring. she was not of forneskja, but she was northern in tongue and bearing.

do you speak my tongue? he asked first, voice deep and edged with something unreadable. a test, perhaps, or merely curiosity.

she spoke of a clan. the only clan here is forneskja, he continued, rolling the name over his tongue like a hammer striking steel. and it is my own.

there was no boast in his voice, only certainty. there were no others like them in these lands. not anymore.

he studied her again, gaze sharp. who were your people?