Neverwinter Forest Weasel hunt

sólhárr listened, nodding along as arrluk spoke of his bride-to-be, of the price he must pay to claim her. the names were foreign to him, but the weight of tradition was not.

his single golden eye gleamed with approval. a worthy price, he mused, voice deep, edged with something knowing. the best things are never given freely.

he stepped back, shifting his weight in the frost-laden earth. hunt well, arrluk. may your fangs be swift, your paws sure. a pause, then a small, knowing smirk. and may the seals gather thick around moontide's shores.

it was an old blessing, one he had heard given to men seeking fortune before him. one he had once coveted for himself.

his ear flicked, and then he turned, stepping away, allowing the younger wolf to begin his task.