whenever he had been alone, mahler had taken the small bit of his regained strength and traversed the foothills. he could not remain as he was forever. not in the small cavern and its joyless impediments. and neither could he be far removed from the eyes of his children; three in sagtannet, one lost to the endless forests of the sunspire.
grief gripped him anew; mahler set his jaw harshly and forced himself into the waterlogged sedges growing newly upward. the ground remained churned and muddy despite the absence of a constant downpour, and though his claws bit firmly into the muck, the man slammed downward with a garbled swear. pain churned through his torn flesh; he felt its lancing slash and grunted, not daring to gather himself up until the worst had passed.
once upon his feet again, mahler stared balefully along the narrow path again. this peak, far less dangerous and dizzying — and still the eisen had failed at its base. mud clinging in smears to his graphite figure, he swallowed the nausea of anguish and began to force himself in an ascent once more.
@Phaedra. she had never come back to herself; mahler felt the strain in his gnarled lacework of scars. and perhaps she never would. forever he would treasure the day that they had watched the moose, and she had spoken in their language again. grief forced a tremble into his jawline. he sought purchase in the next struggling step, refusing to pause or or to breathe until the cavern and foothills were left below. but for now he could go no further; the man felt the bite of anger rise in a great conflagration, until an echoing growl of frustration vibrated velveteen and raw from the toothscored column of his throat.
all of it, blazing with a wildfire frustration along his hipbones; all of it, swallowed and etched into his marrow, and culminated now in the very weakness of his figure.