Neverwinter Forest can't take my history

his voice broke through the murmurs like a blade through frost.

the seiðkona is missing.

a stillness swept over the wolves of forneskja. heads lifted. ears pricked. no one dared speak. only the fire cracked, and the wind hissed through the pines, like it, too, was listening.

sólhárr stood tall atop the rise, his frame cut from iron and shadow, dark fur stirring with the cold. the blue-gold of his gaze swept over them—all of them. warriors. he thought of mothers. the nuiruk.

she left of her own will, he said, voice low but carrying. there was no mourning in his tone. no softness. only fact. not by force. not by hand.

a beat.

then—his gaze turned west, toward the deeper woods, where the shadows never thinned and the memory of her lingered like a scar.

this forest is haunted by her.

his voice dropped like thunder.

we will move.

a ripple spread. surprise. unease. a few jaws parted as if to question—but none spoke.

to the quarry.

his muzzle tipped to the sky, eyes sharp as a whetted blade.

the stone remembers. it does not lie. the old ways can be honored there—away from ghosts, away from her.

he looked down upon them once more. firm. grounded. unshaken.

gather your hides. at first light, forneskja walks anew.