Neverwinter Forest a bargain

At the base of Moonglow, following one of the paths towards the forest, Mojag found a familiar scent—but it was familiar in a nostalgic way, not a recognizable one. A woman's scent, thin now, and fading. He thought he knew it. As he neared what would be the northern outskirts of the forest village, he detected many other scents he did not know, and so he was respectful and came to a stop.

A bundle of dried mullein, a bunch of elderberries, and some of his collection of lavender flowers had been rolled up within a bit of animal hide, kept together with a pair of curved (but still useful) quills. This he carried with him to a cleared spot among the trees; and here, Mojag called a welcoming note through the copse, wondering if any would come to trade.

solharr strode easily beside @Pangur, the weight of forneskja settled across his broad shoulders as naturally as the cold. the call that drifted through the trees earned his attention, and he slowed, motioning with a flick of his tail for his companion to follow.

the man waiting there was unfamiliar, but respectful. solharr measured him with a glance—the bundle of herbs, the careful gathering of goods. no threat.

you call, and we answer, solharr greeted, his deep voice low and warm as embers, gaze steady upon the stranger. i'm solharr, chieftain of forneskja. this is pangur. his chin tipped toward her, offering the introduction as casually as breath.

he went on, glancing briefly to the bundle the man carried. if it's trade you want, or company, speak it.

and though the words were mild, there was the unspoken weight of his station behind them. the safety of his shadow was vast; to walk beside solharr was to walk under his shield.

Oh Pangur was just ecstatic! A stranger calling from the borders— and of course she was quick to skip out alongside Hárkonungr, an intimidating duo! Well, perhaps one half was, at least.

The stranger sat at the cusp of the woods with goods bound in hide, from here she could see the crafty use of the quills; an idea stowed away for a time when Pangur was brave enough to face off against a porcupine.

Solharr does the work of introductions, leaving Pangur to do little more than sit pretty. Still, she offered a greeting, of course. Hallooo She speaks, a melodic touch to the word as she drags it out and a happy flick of her tail.

A pair came to greet him. The man was imposing, swarthy, and unfamiliar—the woman a youthful thing, gold-tinted and friendly. Both seemed interested in what Mojag had brought and after introductions from the two, he was happy to oblige with his own.

I am called Mojag; I am a traveler and a trader, yes! I bring some things. I only ask for one thing in trade: news from your people. It was unusual to do this. Typically he would show off what was brought and wait to see what was offered, but he had a goal in mind right now.

I was born to Moonglow—I would presume you know of your neighbors? For a time there was a second village called Moontide, and I spent much time there. Now returned, I see it is gone. Do you know what happened? He was hopeful, but he would not press the issue. If this village did not have answers for him, he could go back to moon woman and Ajei, and they would surely know.

AH! But here—look to the collection, if it pleases you. And he showed off the clusters of items again, settling to his haunches and giving them both ample time to consider the offer as well as the objects.

solharr regarded the trader with a steady, unreadable gaze, his towering frame casting a long shadow in the winter light. a traveler, then. a trader. forneskja had little use for baubles, but news? news was always valuable.

moontide, he repeated, the name unfamiliar on his tongue. his ear flicked, considering. i have not heard its name for a while. the sea hunters are gone. a pause. i am sorry.

his gaze flickered to the trader’s wares. he was silent for a moment, assessing, before he stepped forward to inspect what was laid out. for news of forneskja, i would trade for your dried herbs. his tone was firm, but when he spotted some other things...

i like collecting things. what is your favorite?

Had he not seen the emptiness of the coastal village himself, he would have been heartbroken. There was still that sting upon hearing his suspicions confirmed, of course. It worried him—he could not imagine the coastal territories without Rodyn there, and it would take time for Mojag to mourn the absence of his once-home. For now, he could swallow it.

The man before him gave his apology, compassionate despite being a stranger; Mojag nods, humble, thankful. When next he speaks of this place, he talks of his home in Forneskja and Mojag moves to bundle the dried herbs as requested, offering them with another motion and then he sank back, so that the man and his companion may continue to peruse.

A brief smile lights upon his face again. I am partial to shining stones myself, although I am not sure if they have any grand use. A bit of a magpie myself— and in case it wasn't known, —they are like crows or ravens, and I have seen them collect baubles of their own. A curious practice that we share.

Another moment to think.

If there is anything I can fetch for you, or anything your people need but cannot find in this place, I am happy to travel on your behalf. It would be part of an arrangement—if you think it a useful bit of work. I am a messenger as well, if you do not have anyone able-bodied within your home. Always offering to help, as it gave his own life purpose.

he took the bundle of herbs with a nod of thanks, large paw brushing the edge of the dried sage. the air between them smelled of healing and endings.

at mojag’s talk of stones, sólhárr’s single eye drifted to the glint of light caught in a polished black shard beside the bundles. a magpie’s treasure. useless to most. but not meaningless.

we carve our shrines with stones like that, he said. not for gods. for memory.

his gaze returned to mojag.

you carry yourself well. with purpose, but no weight in your step. rare.

a pause.

i will not send you chasing for things we can take ourselves. but if you pass through the old gorge west of the quarry… there is silverbark. it doesn’t grow here. and we need it for rites.

his head inclined slowly, a gesture of both respect and invitation.

To hear this man mention gods piques Mojag's interest, but he does not interject until he has heard the full request intonated by this leader of Forneskja. To live so close to Kukutux' village, or within the forest that once belonged to a moon daughter, meant that some beliefs could have been shared. Mojag had met many people with various viewpoints and spiritualities—and while now was not the time to ask such intimate questions, he made a mental note for later.

His gaze followed Solharr's to the blackstone, and back again to the man's face. I will bring more when I find it, then. And as for silverbark—...the gorge, you say? In the core of the mountains? I had thought to cross them someday. Perhaps I will go soon and see to this for you.

A thoughtful look crossed his face, although much of what he could have said remained unspoken. Travel plans, mostly; plotting a course over what he could remember of the valley. I am glad that I can be of some help.

bring more, he said, simple and sure.

at the mention of the gorge, his shoulders rose with a slow inhale. not many made the crossing. fewer returned.

yes, he confirmed. in the heart of the peaks. the path is cruel. the wind sharper than any blade. but the bark is sacred. cut only from trees that have survived more winters than men.

he did not warn mojag away. he would not insult him with softness.

instead, he said, go well-prepared.

a pause. something unspoken lingered in the hard line of his jaw.

then—

i will remember this, mojag.
not a promise. not a debt. something heavier. older.

you are welcome by our camp, whenever you return.

He would go someday and seek the oldest trees. It was surprising to think that this bark would be of any use, but he understood it to be a spiritual matter. A mental note - to take only a small amount from each tree he found, lest they die. Would the skin regrow? He wondered.

An agreement was settled on and so there was nothing else to discuss, at least for business. Mojag let the quiet settle between them, and he saw the man's companion beginning to stalk off. I will call for you, Forneskja man, when I return with what you ask. Please, take anything of my wares before you go - as thanks for news about the tidelands.

But he had already picked out his herbs, and his stones, and perhaps was headed away with his guard. Mojag would quietly pack up after, and go.

the trees will live, he said, the words spoken with quiet confidence. take what is needed. leave what is sacred.

his shoulders rose slightly, the gesture subtle but sure.

when you return, he continued, his voice low, i will be here. and you will be welcome.

he turned then, not waiting for more, but offering something unspoken in his presence—a silent trust, the kind that did not require more words.

and with that, he moved, his figure disappearing into the shadow of the trees, leaving the air to settle back into its natural quiet.