Hideaway Strath the one minute, the soldier's minute

she capitalizes on that he'd said he was a warrior and then gestures to his scars asking for the stories behind each one. there was another dull throb in the back of his head as wintersbane shifts around for the information. falling. the splice of teeth upon flesh. silent begging the reaper to come and end his misery, end his suffering. he hadn't and the specifics still continue to elude wintersbane like a sly will-o-wisp taunting him but dancing just out of his reach every time he goes to grasp it.

he's almost disappointed that he didn't have a collection of epic tales to each scar.

they all came from the same fight. he rumbles, sure of this much at least. vanity had been his god, once upon a time and though he'd boasted of his prowess in battle he'd remained blessed to not bear physical reminders. those days were long behind him. i don't remember much about it. i remember we fought and he nearly killed me. we lost our footing and tumbled over the edge of an outcropping. i'm not sure whether i dealt the death blow or the earth. i lost my memory. it didn't matter, really. point was: that ex-companion was dead.

most of my memory is still missing. wintersbane feels like an incomplete jigsaw puzzle — with the same frustration at knowing that it's a winter cottage but missing enough pieces that all you're left with is the very edges of the building, part of the roof, part of a window filled with warm candleglow and a lump of snow that was the beginning of a tree while everything else remained missing. it occurs to him only after he finishes speaking that being truthful might be a risk but the last thing he wishes to do is lie; and thus he gambled deciding that the risk was greater than trying to conceal his hand.