Blackfeather Woods your beauty makes them weak

wintersbane is relieved to find that he hadn't disturbed her, reading the words that she mouth to him, as silent as she'd been during the rite. unintentionally, it answers a question he'd harbored since first meeting the listener: though he does not know whether he is right or not he is now left to assume that she is mute. it should not surprise him, this assumption made by her continuity to mouth her words. her shadowed daughter does not speak either — though, he thinks with amused fondness that her war cries are banshee shrieks that would be enough to make blood of her foes curdle. he makes a low noise of acknowledgement, glad that he hasn't bothered her by his culling of the very few weeds that have cropped up within the temple.

he takes a moment so survey the land, affirming that he's gotten the few straggler weeds before his gaze returns to the listener and not a moment too soon. "perhaps...," he responds with uncertain honesty. "if they do call to me i do not understand them." he admits. "i...saw them. the night mother and dread father, i mean. after i ingested some mushrooms but when they spoke to me it was with a language older than sky and bone. i couldn't make sense of it." he tells her slowly, brow furrowing as he recalls upon the memory. he does not know whether his inability to translate their words is a good thing or a bad thing. in hindsight, it was likely how the pale, scarred man felt as wintersbane babbled tundrian at him as if he was speaking common; except, perhaps, minus the feeling that he was hearing something undoubtedly holy.

his gaze flitters over her after she admits that sometimes they talk so much that she can't sleep; informing him that they suffer from that evasion of sleep condition. it's strange, at least as far as wintersbane is concerned, he's never inherently bothered by anything. he's not bothered by anything at the moment. there is little in the world he would lose sleep over. mallaidh's words still haunt him; as they always would but he's made his peace with lotte's ghost. he's not restless because he's bored: he keeps himself busy with dark brotherhood quests, working towards his trades, and being as useful as he could to blackfeather.

he has no reason for his lack of sleep that he can pinpoint. "what do they speak of?" he inquires, unsure if he was even allowed to ask that. he's curious but if the words of the daedra was not meant to be shared with anyone but the speaker then he would not press further. he's still learning how the religion ties into their daily life and ranks for he understands now that it's all related. you couldn't seem to have one without the other. "if you can tell me, that is." he adds quietly as an afterthought.

he studies her again, noting the feather that framed the ruined side of her muzzle. "the feather looks nice on you." he tells her earnestly; offering her a small, sheepish quirk of his lips as he follows the brief impulse to derail their conversation to compliment her.