Blacktail Deer Plateau & they will hang us in the louvre

There was only one which Aurëwen had learnt of ...and had failed to execute when the moment to do so had been paramount. The sellfang spoke of fate, too, and her heart of glass and metal and more seized again, and another time. So, in an attempt to ignore it  (with the promise of for-ever)  the herbalist rose, brow heavy, and strode the rest of the way to meet this unnamed, pale paladin as close as he’d allow.

The druid wouldn’t ever be able to reach that particular segment of the column of his throat; not when her half-sight barely rose above the knight’s silvered breast. So all the spindler could do was point at the stalwart — at the great vein that lie restful and thrumming and tucked away — and enquire:  “Such as, here?”  then admitted, even quieter, breath stirring some notched furs,  “I almost had my teeth within it. Almost. If I ever find my son’s captors, I ... my aim would be sure, and true.”  However, that would only be so if airgetlám ever became versed in killing, herself; she hadn’t ever taken to it as she’d once wished she could.

But then, she’d been a girl with such a smothering wrath in her heart that she didn’t know what to do with. She’d known no patience, or hadn’t had the grace to forgive herself for her faults. Had she ever changed from that?

Suddenly and in the lull that followed, though, she found her gesture to be much too reminiscent of a previous, moons-old demonstration, and Aurëwen flushed shamefully beneath her hide; touching or no, she meant to draw away from such an absently-brazen behavior. She’d meant to not be so intrusive, but it just went to show that she was as melancholily impulsive as ever.

And that when there wasn’t a more perfect moment for Aegelius to cause inconvenience; who elicited a flustered, faint  “Ahm—”  from his keeper as he roosted upon the scarred crown and cooed at the behemoth before them both.