Neverwinter Forest dunestag

sólhárr did not speak at once. he listened, studying the man before him in a silence that was not cold, but thoughtful—weighted with the burden of leadership, of understanding what it meant when a soul laid themselves bare before him.

he regarded cicero with a tempered calm, head tilting faintly as the other spoke of the white sylph. the name was familiar now, oft whispered in reverence across their lands, and he had seen with his own eyes the patience in cicero's tending, the knowledge growing beneath ink-stained paws.

then it is a good path, he said at last, voice low and even, the warmth there beneath the surface like fire behind stone. and one we have need for.

he glanced toward the horizon, the winds stirring the ridgeline. we are not a pack untouched by wound or war. to have a healer among us, one with the patience to learn from the land and from those before him, is no small gift.

his blue-gold eyes returned to cicero now, steady. if that is where your heart lies, then i will see it done. speak with white sylph again. tell her sólharrr gives his blessing for your training to continue. you will walk as a mender in our ranks. a pause. then, quieter, and may you be the balm we sorely need.