Bitterroot Valley on this earth not alone we stand

the guardian does not believe him; ingram -- imrathil did not miss the dismissive sweep of the man's sundered gaze, yet he remained silent for now, fixated on the lonely frontier ahead. he had no will to argue, for the man's fumbling words had a decisive point. all the same, imrathil wished he did not have to endure he crushing weight of his feeble psyche.



as wardruna spoke of the change gradually overcoming the wilds, the ankyrian struggled to recall if he even remembered frost; it conjured images of coldness, dislike -- yet the memory that ought to summon images of wildfire red leaves, shaking grey timbers,  hills grey with frosted grass was blank; or, not blank -- simply clouded behind an impenetrable resolve to remain hidden.

he sighed to himself, a shallow exhale that met the cold air and faded. each prospect the one-eyed guardian mentioned seemed equally appealing; without memories to tether him to this world, ingram -- imrathil -- was one desperate to prove he had a place here; even if that place was in death.

"okay." he affirmed, not that his affirmation would have mattered; he would have followed the grim face of his guardian off the face of a cliff, if it was so commanded.