Hideaway Strath he walks the field at night

the ruby eyed female speaks her words in a hush, declaring that he is one of the lucky ones. perhaps that is what she thinks but the tundrian does not agree with her. he'd have rather had the time to spend with lotte even if it meant suffering the pain and grief of watching her die. he does not know the circumstances of her death, of course, and this is easy for him to say in his ignorance of the whole subject. he doesn't know what arturo, hemlock, of his siblings suffered by seeing it. "i would have rather spent her given time with her than spent it away." wintersbane contemplates his words as he speaks them. it's easy for him to say. would he say the same thing if the situation had been different? perhaps if he wouldn't have wandered into the ravine and gotten kidnapped ...perhaps she wouldn't have died at all.

of course she did, he thinks to the woman's statement. granted, the stranger isn't aware that it's his mother's grave he looms over: she only sees a grave. "she was my mother." the tundrian's words were solemn as he speaks them, glacial gaze lifting from the hemlocks that guard lotte's corporeal body to the ebon furred, red eyed woman. "i look like her." wintersbane tells the stranger, without much reason as to why. it hardly mattered, but the rare times he glimpsed himself in the distorted image of a body of water he can see his mother in him. he is the masculine form of lotte ansbjørn and he is proud to carry on the torch of both her legacy and her memory.