Northstar Vale a grin as sharp as a knife (mtr.)

you are a maker of distress, andraste tells him and a low snort pushes itself free from black, leathery nostrils to further accent the slight furrow of his brow as he contemplates those words; coupled as they were by her following statement that he sweeps damsels off their feet all the same, ears twitching forth as she speaks 'us' as if she considers herself in that mix. he is quiet for a moment longer, submerging himself entirely in the warm waters before breaking the surface with the rise of his head, blinking droplets out of his eyes. that sounds terribly complicated. he rumbles, perhaps a touch apologetically.

melkor.

wintersbane weighs it as the gods weigh the hearts of the dead, judging it. melkor. he repeats, watching as she creeps nearer. it sounds strong, he comments upon it. unless of course you just named me 'rat's ass' or something, he jests with a low rasping laugh. ...it doesn't mean that, does it? he asks seconds later, uncertainty drudging seriousness to the surface. then from now on i shall be: melkor ansbjørn, of courtfall. he must admit that it rolls easier off the tongue than 'wintersbane' even if shedding it feels a bit sad, though the revival of lotte's sirename prior to her binding to arturo still ensures he carries on her legacy in some manner or another.

i suppose, he replies in response to her answer to his inquiry, even though he feels like it's a dance around to giving a direct 'yes' or 'no'. for now, he accepts it and does not push any more on the topic of risks.