Neverwinter Forest the void of a world

open to any forneskja members! tags for visibility: @Solharr @Callyope @Rokkur

stark awoke to a pale sliver of morning light creeping through the canopy, his body stiff and sore as he pulled himself upright. the hush of dawn pressed against his ears. it took him a few moments to steady his breath, each inhalation filling his nose with the heavy scent of a pack he did not know.

@Needle.

her absence struck him harder than any physical wound. she was not here—that much was clear. the panic that rose in his chest demanded he move, demanded he find her, but his limbs trembled with weakness, and the ache in his side warned him not to push too far. he forced himself to remain still, nostrils flaring as he scoured the air for some trace of her.

nothing. not even a lingering whiff.

his single eye roved across the unfamiliar surroundings, cataloging every shape and scent, searching for answers. the desire to leave boiled beneath his skin, but he couldn’t—not yet. not until he knew who had taken him in. at the very least, they were owed his thanks. as much as such a thought grated on him. slowly, he let the fear sink beneath his composure, burying it. it would do him no good—nor needle, wherever she was—to charge off half-dead. for now, he would bide his time. only when he was strong enough would he decide his next move.

though his frame was weakened from injury, his resolve stiffened his spine. he halted at the tree’s broad root, inhaling deeply, but there was no trace of needle in the cool air—no scent he recognized beyond that of strangers who had tended his wounds.

sólhárr's approach was deliberate, each heavy step cutting through the frost-laden undergrowth with purpose. the man, stirred at his movement, his single eye catching sight of sólhárr’s hulking form as he drew near.

awake, finally, sólhárr rumbled, his voice low but steady. he stopped a short distance away, his golden eye scanning his form, noting the tension in his frame despite the clear weakness that gripped him. you’ve rested long enough to gather strength. that’s good.

he didn’t wait for a reply, instead lowering his massive frame to sit, his posture relaxed yet commanding. you were at my borders, near death. my wife and i carried you here. i trust you remember why you were so close to meeting the gods.

there was no malice in his tone, but his words held the weight of expectation. he didn’t ask lightly—this man had been saved for a reason, but that reason was yet unclear.

your wounds are healing. you’ll recover, but your time here is not free. forneskja gives because it is strong. you will respect that, sólhárr added, his golden eye narrowing slightly. and if you wish to remain until your strength returns, you will offer something in return. now— his brow lifted slightly, the faintest edge of curiosity breaking his stern demeanor. who is this needle you search for? your lips spoke her name when we found you.

his gaze bore into the man with one eye, waiting, weighing.

Stark’s single eye shifted warily between Sólhárr’s broad frame and the forest beyond, noting the pack presence that drifted along the edges of his senses. He managed to rise enough to sit, though his muscles quivered from the effort. The dull ache in his side flared beneath the bandages of root mulch and aloe.

A surge of—not quite anger, no, for he felt gratitude for the man, but perhaps agitation—flickered to flame. The man—King of this land or something similar, he assumed—spoke almost patronizing. But he swallowed his irritation, felt the ragged pang of protest in his throat. He wasn’t in a position to push back. He would not push back. For all of his smiting bite, he knew the art of decorum. Of policy.

Stark finds the strength to speak. His voice is hoarse with disuse. “You have me at a disadvantage,” painful admittance. He, nontheless, eyeballed the man of reds. Waging the price of the scars that similarly decorated his hide. The missing eye he, too, wore. A flicker of grudging respect coiled in Stark’s chest. “I owe you, and your wife, for sparing my life. I am indebted.” He mumbles.

A dip of his head. His muzzle tenses at the mention of Needle. His heart twitched beneath his ribs at her name. "I vow you my service. But once I’m on my feet again, I must go. It is no question—I must find her." Sólhárr would come to know the worth of that. A man studied in diplomacy, history, and the art of war. A scholar first, a warrior second. Stark would prove himself invaluable. The inquiry of Needle was not ignored. A bittersweet murmur upon his northern tongue, a tongue Sólhárr would recognize for what it was. “Needle is a young girl under my care. A daughter, in some ways.” He exhales a shaky breath. It was the first time he had admitted such feelings for her. “We were separated.”

He looked up from his paws, a hardness overtaking his one good eye now. “We happened upon a band of passing rogues,” he began, his voice clipped, “Stupid girl thought to stand and fight. Told her to run instead—only way she would've lived. I stood and fought. They saw fit to leave me for dead. She returned, as I knew she would, tried to mend my wounds. But she had to eat eventually—I was right in teaching her to hunt. I suppose that’s when you found me. Had she any other choice, I doubt she’d have left me at all.”

the tale the man spun was not unfamiliar—worn threads of loyalty, loss, and survival wove through it, binding them in shared knowledge of what it meant to endure.

valiant, sólhárr said, his voice a deep rumble that carried both respect and skepticism. he studied stark’s wounds, the set of his jaw, the single eye that met his gaze with defiance and pain. few would stand as you did. fewer still would survive. your scars speak louder than your words.

he stepped forward, his massive frame looming yet not threatening, his posture a blend of authority and solidarity. the snow crunched underfoot as he stopped just shy of stark, his breath visible in the cold air.

your name, warrior? sólhárr asked, his tone demanding but not unkind. after a pause, he added, needle—she is young, you say? if the gods favor your bond, you will find her again. but for now, forneskja offers you respite. take it. heal. strength is not found in recklessness, nor in abandoning what is given.

he straightened, his gaze drifting toward the horizon as if seeking the path stark might one day take. when the time comes, you will leave this place sharper than you arrived. that is my word, as sólhárr, hárkonungr of forneskja.

Stark squared his shoulders, lifting his chin despite the ache that rippled through his side. He met Sólhárr’s gaze—one golden eye locked upon another—and inclined his head in a slow, measured bow.

“Stark,” A name in exchange for a name.

He paused, taking in the cold air as it stung his lungs, the faint taste of blood lingering at the back of his throat. The tension in his frame belied a weariness he refused to show outright.

"I cannot rest easy while she roams beyond my sight. Once I am fit to travel, I will seek her.” He mumbles quietly, looking down upon the ground, as if lost in thought. Pondering. A rumble upon his throat. "She is a strong girl. She was on her own before me, she will be fine on her own now. Still—I worry."

It was bitter to admit. It was even more bitter to be so vulnerable before the man whom he barely knew, let alone someone of his own kin. Stark huffs.

I will guard your lands, and should it happen, fight amongst your warriors as one of them. You have my word. Let it not be said Stark repaid compassion with ingratitude.

sólhárr studied the man before him, a faint twitch at the corner of his lips betraying a semblance of amusement. stærk, he repeated, the name rolling off his tongue with the weight of his northern accent, shaping it into something uniquely his own. his gaze remained steady, golden eye catching the subtle strain in the other’s posture, the weariness stark couldn’t fully hide.

she will be fine, you say, yet your heart worries, sólhárr remarked, voice carrying both understanding and a hint of challenge. this needle of yours—must be strong, yes? but strength is not always enough. still, if you are her shield, you will find her. this i believe.

he shifted his stance slightly, the weight of his authority matched only by the slight incline of his head, a gesture that spoke of his respect. your word holds meaning, stærk. you may call these lands a haven until you are ready. fight, if called upon, and you shall find a place among my warriors.

he paused, his golden gaze sharpening. but remember this—rest does not mean surrender. a strong man knows when to gather strength before the storm. when you find her, she will need you whole, not broken.

with that, sólhárr took a step back, giving the man space to process his thoughts. there was no pity in his gaze, only the weight of a chieftain who understood what it meant to carry burdens heavier than oneself.

“I’ll make use of it, then. I’ve no taste for dying a fool’s death at someone else’s borders.”

For him, courtesy was currency—a tool to be spent sparingly on those with power worth acknowledging. Sólhárr had earned a modicum of that, having saved his life.

He looked like he might leap into those shadows at any moment, vanish to pursue his own ends. But for now, he remained, restrained by the fact he needed to heal. And, that he would not be a man who broke his word.

At the end of the day, he recognized authority but bowed to no one’s will except his own.

He huffs, managing to rise to his paws once more. Parched, his tongue draws across his snout; he huffs, giving his coat as big a shake as he could physically stand as pain etched through his flank. "Care to lead me to water?"

a quiet hum rumbled low in his throat, acknowledging the request without hesitation.

come, he said simply, his voice gruff but not unkind. with deliberate steps, sólhárr began to move, his paws pressing firm into the snow, leaving a clear path for stærk to follow. the journey was unhurried; the northerner understood the limits of a wounded wolf. his own scars ached with the memory of countless battles, a shared language written into their bodies.

the faint sound of trickling water reached his ears first, the distant melody of a thawed stream threading through the silence of the glade. sólhárr slowed his pace as they neared, casting a glance back to ensure stærk still followed.

reaching the edge of the stream, he stepped aside, his broad shoulders brushing against a low-hanging branch. he gestured with a nod of his head toward the clear water. drink. you’ll need your strength, stærk. his voice carried a weight of authority, though there was no cruelty in it—just the firm expectation of a leader.

he lingered nearby, his gaze sweeping the surroundings with vigilance. forneskja’s lands were his to protect, and though stærk carried the scent of gratitude, sólhárr’s instincts never fully rested.