Whitewater Gorge i wish i could rub the grief from you as if it were a smudge on the cheek

mahler's travels for a small space of time left diaspora in kazimir's paws for the first time, but he had faith she would watch well their borders. flinging up a cry that told his wanderings to both the she-wolf and his kill-brother, the gargoyle drifted into the shared lands and was gone.
for some time he loped in the shadow of a drifting hawk, which found it sporting to challenge the wolf to a race across the narrow knifelike paths that led through the mountains. this mahler obliged with a silent eagerness, tongue lolling with an abandon he did not display before any of his fellows. the spoor of goats gave way to deer-marks as his descent began, and then up again to where only the most sure-footed might go.
the wind caught at his proud ruff, drawing it in a charcoal mane 'round his face as cold lavender eyes lay stonelike upon the moving body of a pale nymph below him. he knew who it was, and all at once mahler had begun to come down toward her, features somber, mouth grim as he came away from his own tasks.
"aurëven," he called when he had come within range of her ears. "vhy did you do it?" why had she attacked stigmata, had herself and her young brood driven from the mountain? she was alone now; yes, she was often alone, was she not, for the motherdove was not one who had ever fully accepted that she must always be present for her little ones. but he was not here to judge her for that; the castigation in his hard lilac stare was for the reckless choice she had made, and that alone.