Neverwinter Forest Weasel hunt

sólhárr stood at the edge of forneskja’s land, broad and steady, a wall of flame and earth. he watched the young man approach, his posture relaxed but unreadable, gold eye sharp beneath the low winter light.

arrluk, he greeted, the name rolling off his tongue with a weight that suggested recognition, but not familiarity. his tail gave a single, slow sway behind him, an acknowledgment. you come for callyope?

there was no hostility in his tone, but there was scrutiny, a quiet assessment of the wolf before him. moonglow blood, sea in his veins, kin to his wife. that alone earned him passage, but sólhárr was a man of tradition—respect must be given, lines must be drawn.