Neverwinter Forest get on up again,

the first light of dawn crept through the canopy, casting soft streaks of gold across the forest floor. sólhárr moved with purpose, the weight of his title resting comfortably on his broad shoulders. the hárkonungr carried the air of a wolf born to lead, his steps steady and deliberate as he made his way toward the den of the northern brute.

when he arrived, his sharp eyes settled on the younger wolf. sprawled in the comfort of sleep, the brute’s chest rose and fell with the ease of one lost in dreams. sólhárr’s brow quirked, his expression a mix of bemusement and quiet disapproval.

hm, he hummed softly, his voice a low vibration in the still morning air. his eyes swept over the den, noting the strong scent of rest and the faint remnants of the brute’s northern home.

was this how the north greeted the dawn? in slumber?

he cleared his throat, a subtle but purposeful sound meant to rouse the sleeping wolf without startling him. do the wolves of huldfall always greet their mornings this way? his tone was dry, edged with humor but carrying the weight of expectation. he waited, his piercing gaze steady, watching for the first signs of wakefulness.

@Luhtar

Luhtar lay sprawled in the comfortable mess of his den, the soft rise and fall of his chest the only movement as the first light of dawn began to creep in. The warmth of sleep clung to him, his dreams as undisturbed as the still morning air. A low hum drifted into his subconscious, pulling at the edges of his rest. It wasn’t until the pointed clearing of a throat followed that his ears twitched, his mind sluggishly registering the sound. Then, a voice—firm, dry, and unmistakably Sólhárr’s—cut through the haze.

Luhtar’s eyes shot open, startled by his gravelly words. In his haste, he sniffed sharply, inhaling a bit of dry bedding. The resulting sneeze echoed in the den, a sharp, undignified sound that left him blinking groggily as he sat up.

Still half-asleep, he squinted toward the silhouette standing at the entrance, the soft morning light outlining Sólhárr’s imposing frame. A groan escaped him as he began to haul his large frame upright, muttering incoherent complaints under his breath. Something about “early” and “shouldn’t be allowed” slipped out, though none of it was clear.

Finally, after a few stumbling steps, Luhtar emerged from the mouth of his den, the chill of the morning air doing little to help his grogginess. He blinked against the light, his yellow eyes settling on Sólhárr with a look that was equal parts sheepish and annoyed. He stood there for a moment, swaying slightly as if still trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep.

“I… sleep. Now, wake,” he mumbled eventually, his voice rough and thick with his northern accent, as if that alone was enough to answer Sólhárr’s unspoken judgment. "We patrol?" He blinked curiously.

sólhárr watched the younger wolf stumble his way to consciousness, the corner of his mouth twitching with a restrained smile. luhtar’s groggy movements and half-formed grumbles were met with patient silence, though the hárkonungr’s sharp eyes never left him. he waited until the northern brute was steady on his paws, the morning air helping to clear the haze of sleep from his frame.

yes, sólhárr confirmed simply, his tone firm but not unkind. we patrol.

he turned without further words, the slight tilt of his head signaling luhtar to follow. sólhárr set a steady pace, his stride purposeful as they moved toward the border. the crisp dawn air carried with it the scents of the forest waking to a new day, the faint rustle of life stirring in the underbrush accompanying their steps.

let’s see if the north in you is as sharp as your tongue, sólhárr remarked over his shoulder, the humor in his words subtle but unmistakable. he kept his gaze ahead, ears tuned for any sound that might betray something unusual on their path. this is your land now, too. it’s time you see it in full.

Luhtar trailed behind Solharr, his movements still sluggish as the chill of dawn worked its way through his thick fur. Each step dragged just a bit before finding its rhythm, and his breath fogged in the morning air. His ears twitched at Solharr’s quip, the older wolf’s words lighting a spark of mild irritation in his chest. It wasn’t biting, but it was enough to prod Luhtar’s pride. He snorted, a puff of condensation rising before him as he quickened his pace to fall into step beside Solharr.

“I’ve yet to meet land sharper than me,” he replied, his tone dry, the corner of his mouth quirking upward in a lopsided grin. His Common was rough and clipped, but he leaned into it, the accent thick as he added, “Though… don’t know. You show me more.”

His gaze drifted outward as they walked, taking in the quiet stretch of Forneskja’s territory. The trees here were tall and unfamiliar, their branches gnarled. The air had a bite, though it lacked the teeth of the northern winds he’d grown up with. It was calmer, quieter, like it was holding its breath.

He wasn’t sure if he liked that.

The stillness unnerved him, made his ears twitch as if he could coax the forest into speaking.

He glanced at Solharr, the older wolf’s stride steady and assured. Luhtar’s lips pressed into a thin line, words hovering just at the edge of his tongue before he shoved them back down. He didn’t want to sound weak, and he definitely didn’t want to sound lost. Not here. Not now. Instead, he focused on his footing, forcing himself to match Solharr’s pace without stumbling.

After a beat, he muttered, “This place. It… good land.” He gestured vaguely with his muzzle, his yellow eyes narrowing slightly as he surveyed the path ahead. “But quiet. Too quiet. North, there always noise. Wind, storms… life. Here, it feels… hm.”

sólhárr's ears flicked as luhtar spoke, his words gruff but carrying a trace of something reflective. he considered the younger wolf’s observations, glancing around at the stillness that enveloped them. the early morning painted the forest in soft hues, and the quiet felt heavier than usual, settling like a blanket over the land.

quiet is good, he said after a moment, his voice low but steady, as if he spoke to the forest as much as to luhtar. peaceful.

his gaze shifted to the northern wolf walking beside him, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. the north is restless. fierce. but here— he gestured with a slight tilt of his muzzle to the towering trees around them, their boughs hanging heavy with dew—here, the quiet lets you think. breathe. maybe even rest, if you can allow it.

he continued to walk, his steps unhurried, giving luhtar time to absorb the silence he so clearly wasn’t accustomed to. sólhárr was not one to push or rush. he knew the value of letting another wolf find their footing on their own terms.

besides, he added with a faint chuckle, peace doesn’t last forever. enjoy it while it’s here. his sunrise oceanic gaze swept forward, ever watchful, though his demeanor remained calm.

Luhtar’s ears twitched at Sólhárr's words, his expression remaining neutral, though his sharp yellow gaze betrayed the churn of his thoughts. The quiet was good, Sólhárr had said. Peaceful. Luhtar didn’t agree—not yet, at least. The stillness here felt unnatural, as though the forest were holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. Back home, the north never waited. It roared and raged, a place alive with movement and sound, where survival was carved from the chaos.

“Quiet make you soft,” Luhtar said after a pause, his voice blunt but lacking malice. He wasn’t challenging Sólhárr, just stating a truth as he saw it. His gaze flicked to the trees, his nose twitching at the scent of damp earth and dew. “The North keeps you ready. Never lets you stop. Here... it feels like waiting for a knife to the back.”

The younger wolf’s steps remained steady, though his ears turned at every faint rustle in the underbrush. Despite his words, he wasn’t entirely sure the quiet was as dangerous as it felt. Maybe Sólhárr was right—maybe it did offer space to think, to breathe. But that didn’t mean he liked it. Breathing was a luxury he wasn’t used to, and thinking too much often led to doubts he preferred to leave buried.

Sólhárr's mention of peace not lasting drew a faint snort from him, a sound that was half amusement, half agreement. “That’s true enough,” Luhtar muttered. His gaze shifted to the older wolf, noting the calm, unhurried pace of his stride. Sólhárr moved like a wolf who didn’t question his place here, who trusted the quiet not to betray him. It was a stark contrast to Luhtar’s own restlessness, his inability to fully let his guard down.

“You talk like you’ve seen peace before.” Luhtar said, glancing sidelong at his Hárkonungr. He shrugged, the movement stiff, his broad shoulders rolling beneath his thick coat. “But maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s worth enjoying. For now.”

Even as he said it, Luhtar’s ears remained alert, his steps careful. If peace was a fleeting thing, as Sólhárr suggested, then it wasn’t something to be trusted—not fully. But Sólhárr had earned his place, his reputation, and Luhtar wasn’t fool enough to dismiss his wisdom outright.

sólhárr’s stride remained steady, his eyes on the path ahead, but his ears turned toward luhtar’s words. the younger wolf’s bluntness brought a faint smirk to the hárkonungr’s face, though his response was measured.

peace doesn’t make you soft, he said after a moment, his voice low but carrying weight. peace gives you the strength to keep going. it lets you mend what’s been broken. rebuild what’s been lost. but you have to guard it, same as anything else.

his amber gaze shifted to the forest, the towering trees and the soft undergrowth swaying with a gentle breeze. it was quiet, yes, but it wasn’t lifeless. there was always movement, always something stirring, even if it wasn’t as loud or relentless as the north. the north shapes you, sharpens you, he admitted. but this place… it’s a different kind of strength. not one made of storms and ice, but one that endures through patience.

his gaze flicked to luhtar, reading the restless energy in his steps and the constant swivel of his ears. he admired the younger wolf’s vigilance but saw the wear it brought. i’ve seen peace, yes. but i’ve also seen what happens when wolves don’t have it—when they’re so used to fighting, they forget how to stop. that’s no life, luhtar.

he let the words hang in the air for a moment before his lips curled faintly, a glint of wry humor in his eyes. but you’re right—it doesn’t last. so maybe that’s why it’s worth savoring when you find it.

Luhtar’s ears twitched as Solharr spoke, catching the weight in his tone. The Hárkonungr’s words carried a patience Luhtar didn’t have, an understanding of peace that felt foreign to him. His yellow eyes flicked to the forest, scanning the swaying undergrowth and towering trees, as if trying to see what Solharr saw. To Luhtar, it was still too quiet. Too still. It wasn’t lifeless, maybe, but it lacked the ferocity he was used to—a ferocity that made sense to him.

“Strength from patience,” he muttered, the words heavy on his tongue as if they didn’t quite fit. His steps slowed slightly, his gaze narrowing as he mulled over the thought. The north had shaped him, molded him with its harshness. It was all he had known.

But Solharr wasn’t wrong either. Never, was he wrong. Luhtar had seen wolves who couldn’t stop fighting, who carried the storm inside them even when the battle was over.

“I don’t know,” he said finally, his voice gruff but quieter now. “Maybe it’s good, this peace. But it feels like waiting. Like something’s coming, and the quiet’s just a trick to make you drop your guard.” His gaze shifted to Solharr, the bluntness in his tone softening slightly. “Or maybe I really am just as paranoid as my father.”

sólhárr’s pace did not falter as luhtar spoke, though the faintest flicker of amusement danced across his coral eyes. the boy was sharp, certainly—blunt and restless, like a blade that had yet to be tempered. he held the storm of the north within him, and sólhárr saw in him both promise and an impatience that could cut both ways.

you are not wrong to question, sólhárr began, his voice calm yet firm, carrying the weight of his years and experience. the quiet can feel deceptive. it can make you uneasy, restless, like it is trying to lull you into complacency. but it is not weakness to embrace peace when it comes. it is wisdom.

his gaze shifted to the young wolf, his steps deliberate as he led them deeper into the forest. you think us foolish, perhaps, for walking this land without fear of what lies beyond the trees. he let the words settle, a soft hum in the cool air. but we are not blind to what may come. peace does not mean we are unprepared.

sólhárr glanced back at luhtar then, his expression unreadable but not unkind. strength from patience, yes. and strength from knowing when to act. there is balance in this, luhtar. not all battles are fought with teeth and claws. some are won before they ever begin.

a pause, and then a faint, knowing smile touched his lips. as for your paranoia… he tipped his head toward the boy. you're not your father. you know this.

Luhtar’s ears flicked again at Sólhárr's calm reply, the older wolf’s measured words cutting through the cool air like the steady beat of a drum. Sólhárr didn’t falter, didn’t waver, and that unwavering steadiness grated against Luhtar’s restlessness even as it anchored him. The weight of the Hárkonungr’s gaze, coral and piercing, settled on him like a quiet judgment, though not an unkind one.

The mention of his father lingered, pressing on Luhtar more than he cared to admit. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, his gaze darted downward, scanning the path beneath his paws as though the answer might be hidden there. He knew Sólhárr was right—knew it in the way truth often felt uncomfortable, like a thorn stuck too deep to pull free.

“I know I’m not him,” Luhtar said, his voice gruff, though the edge of his earlier defensiveness had dulled. His yellow eyes lifted again, locking briefly with Sólhárr's before flitting back to the forest ahead. “But the storm... it stays with you. No matter how far you go. No matter how much you try to leave it behind.”

There was no bitterness in his tone, just a kind of weary acceptance, as if he had stopped fighting the shadows that trailed him long ago. He took a deep breath, the crisp air filling his lungs as he rolled his shoulders, releasing some of the tension there.

“You say peace doesn’t mean we’re unprepared,” he continued after a pause, his voice quieter now, reflective. “That it’s strength too. But what if the storm comes, and it finds you too still? Too quiet? What then?”

The question hung in the air, not entirely rhetorical, though Luhtar wasn’t expecting an answer. It wasn’t doubt he felt toward Sólhárr—it was fear, buried deep and tangled with the memories of the north. The storms had shaped him, had made him who he was, and even in the quiet of Forneskja, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were never far behind.

But for all his unease, for all his questions, Luhtar trusted Sólhárr—trusted him enough to follow, even if he didn’t always understand the path.

sólhárr’s gaze softened, though his stance remained firm, a steadfast presence against the weight of luhtar’s unease. the younger wolf’s words carried the echoes of his northern storms, the shadows of a past that clung tight and refused to let go.

the storm stays with you, yes, he said slowly, his voice like the low rumble of distant thunder, steady and deliberate. but so does the strength it gave you. you carry it, luhtar, as much as it carries you.

he paused, letting his words settle like snow upon the forest floor. the woods of forneskja are not like the north. they do not rage against the world; they adapt. they are strong, yes, but resilient. life finds its way through the roots, through the canopy, weaving its strength into the tapestry.

his amber gaze turned toward the towering trees around them, his voice quieting to something almost reverent. if the storm comes, we will not be still. forneskja bends, but it does not break. it is not stillness you see here, luhtar. it is preparation, a quiet resolve, a different kind of strength.

he turned back to the younger wolf, his eyes gleaming with something older, something wise. you fear the storm, but you do not run from it. that is how we will endure. together, through the storms and the quiet, we adapt.

sólhárr let the silence linger, watching luhtar carefully, allowing the young warrior the space to wrestle with the truths that had been spoken. he did not press further; instead, he let the strength of his words fill the space between them.

Luhtar’s steps slowed slightly as Sólhárr's words settled over him, their weight not heavy but grounding. The tension in his shoulders eased, and his ears twitched faintly. For the first time that morning, he let himself breathe deeply, the crisp air filling his lungs as his restlessness began to wane.

“You’re right,” he said after a long pause, his voice quieter now, the rough edges smoothed. It wasn’t often Luhtar conceded, but there was no fight left in him. “Maybe not every fight needs to be fought.”

The quiet admission surprised even him, but it felt honest in a way that few of his words did. Sólhárr's calm, his steadfast presence—it wasn’t something Luhtar had always known growing up in the North, but it was something he could learn to appreciate. The North was still with him, always would be, but perhaps Sólhárr was right.

He let the silence stretch for a moment, then shook his head, a faint huff escaping him.

Turning his yellow eyes back to Solharr, Luhtar tilted his head slightly, his expression lighter now, almost curious. “Tell me about the woods, then. Forneskja. The stories. The roots, the canopy.” He gestured vaguely with his muzzle, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “These trees have lived longer than either of us. What is it they’ve seen?”

The shift in conversation was deliberate, his way of letting Sólhárr know he’d heard him, that the unease had lifted. There was still much Luhtar didn’t understand, but for now, he was content to listen—to let the quiet of the forest fill the spaces where the storm usually roared.

sólhárr’s steps slowed in turn, his fiery gaze lifting to the towering canopy above, where beams of dappled light danced among the branches. he took in the stillness of the forest, broken only by the whisper of the wind and the faint rustle of leaves, as if the woodland itself breathed with them.

these trees, he began, his voice low, reverent, are the guardians of forneskja. their roots run deep, connecting us to the earth. their boughs reach for the sky, touching the heavens. they are more than trees, luhtar. they are witnesses.

he let his eyes drift back to luhtar, the weight of his words measured. they have seen countless seasons, storms, and stillness. they hold the memories of those who came before us—the wolves who first walked this forest and spoke to the spirits. they are the ones who taught us how to listen.

a pause, the faint sound of a bird’s call filling the quiet. the spirits linger here, sólhárr continued, his tone growing softer. they speak, though not always in words. they weave their whispers through the wind, the creak of branches, the sway of leaves. they remind us of our fortune, of the balance we must maintain. the woods give, but they also take. it is our duty to honor them.

he gestured with a subtle tilt of his muzzle to a particularly ancient tree, its trunk wide and scarred with age. there is a story, he said, stepping closer to the towering giant, of a wolf who sought to claim this forest as his own. he was strong, prideful, and believed himself above the spirits. but the trees did not bow to him. they stood tall, unyielding, and in their defiance, the spirits sent the winds to strip him of his arrogance. he left, humbled, never to return.

turning back to luhtar, sólhárr’s gaze was steady, his voice firm but not unkind. forneskja is not ours to take. it is ours to protect. and in doing so, we honor the spirits, the guardians, and the wolves who came before.

he let the silence settle between them, a moment for reflection, before asking quietly, can you hear them, luhtar? the trees, the spirits—they speak. you need only listen.

Luhtar's strides grew more leisurely, his yellow eyes following Solharr’s gaze upward to the canopy above. The Hárkonungr’s words carried a weight that filled the air around them, heavier than the quiet wind threading through the branches.

Witnesses. Spirits. Guardians. The ideas were foreign to Luhtar, who had always seen the world as something to be fought for, claimed, and endured. But there was something about Solharr’s voice that made him pause, his skepticism held at bay.

His gaze drifted to the ancient tree Solharr indicated, its gnarled trunk thick and scarred with countless seasons.

“I hear the wind,” he said after a pause, his tone thoughtful. “The leaves. The branches moving. But...” His voice trailed off, and his brow furrowed slightly. “If there’s more, maybe I’m not meant to hear it. Not yet.”

“This place is yours,” he said finally, his voice gruff but carrying an undertone of respect. “You understand it in ways I don’t. But if the spirits want me to listen... I’ll try. For you. For Forneskja.”

sólhárr’s gaze lingered on luhtar, his expression unreadable but steady, like the roots of the great trees around them. the younger wolf’s words carried a rare humility, and that earned the faintest glimmer of approval in the hárkonungr’s icebound eyes.

then you should seek rökkur, sólhárr said, his voice low and deliberate, like the deep hum of the forest itself. he is the seiðmaður. he listens to the spirits and hears what others cannot. he will teach you. but you must be patient, luhtar. the ways of forneskja are not for those who rush.

he paused, letting the quiet forest hold them for a moment, the whispers of the wind through the canopy a gentle reminder of the unseen forces at play. this place does not demand perfection, only respect, he added, his tone softening slightly.

his head tilted slightly as he regarded luhtar. tell me—what do you wish for your place here to be? what role do you see for yourself among us? the question hung between them, an invitation for the younger wolf to shape his own path within forneskja’s sacred bounds.

Luhtar met Sólhárr's gaze, his yellow eyes narrowing slightly as he considered the question. The Hárkonungr’s steady presence was impossible to ignore, and his words carried a weight that left no room for dismissal.

Seek Rökkur. Be patient. It was easier said than done for someone like Luhtar, whose nature was one of action, not waiting. Luhtar could not help but feel defeated, ears turning to nearly pin to his rounded head.

"If you think that wise, then I will." He said.

He shifted his weight, his gaze dropping briefly to the forest floor before lifting again to the towering trees. What do you wish for your place here to be? It was a question he hadn’t asked himself before, not in so many words.

“I don’t know,” he admitted finally, his voice rough but quieter than usual. His ears twitched, a faint sign of his unease as he searched for the right words. “In Huldfall, you didn’t choose. You were what the Elders made you. A protector. A provider. Whatever the pack needed.”

He cast a quiet look towards Sólhárr. "I know that I would fight."

sólhárr hummed low in his chest, stepping closer to luhtar. with a deliberate motion, he nudged the boy’s nape, letting his teeth wrap gently around his throat—a gesture not of dominance but of confidence, a silent assurance that he saw strength in him. he released him, his glacier eyes steady as they met the sharp yellow gaze.

you would fight, he agreed, his voice a deep rumble of conviction. and fight well, i think. you’ve the build of a guard, the spirit of a warrior. both are needed here.

he stepped back, his tail swaying slightly as he considered the younger wolf. forneskja is not huldfall. here, you choose your place, your path. but a warrior’s heart beats in you, boy. with patience and purpose, you could be great.

sólhárr gave a faint grin, his teeth glinting briefly in the forest’s dim light. seek rökkur. learn the ways of the spirits. and when you’re ready, i’ll test you myself.

exit sólhárr

Luhtar stiffened briefly at Solharr’s touch, the gesture unexpected but not unwelcome. The Hárkonungr’s teeth at his throat stirred something instinctual—a recognition of strength, not submission. When Solharr released him, Luhtar dipped his head slightly, not in deference but in acknowledgment.

His yellow gaze remained locked on the older wolf as Solharr spoke. Luhtar had always been told what he was, but here, the choice felt less like a demand and more like an opportunity. Forneskja’s way was different, deliberate and purposeful, and while it was unfamiliar, it stirred something in him that felt... right.

“A warrior,” Luhtar echoed. There was no doubt in his tone, no hesitation. It was who he was, who he had always been, but hearing Solharr’s conviction lent the title a new weight.

His gaze flicked toward the ancient trees once more. Seek Rökkur. Learn the ways of the spirits. The idea made him uneasy, but not in a way that pushed him to resist.

“When the time comes,” Luhtar said after a pause, vox rough. “I’ll take your test. And I won’t fail.”

exit luhtar