Deepwood Weald and if you don't know, now you know

staying vague w demeanor for now

Aksva—
        it is what she has named that thing with feathers, perching upon elm boughs as if the last, fleeting sigil of faith; this thing with half-moon eyes that stared through the paltry stature of herself and knew the stormcloak that had become her mantle; that which the stricken must always veil from the sights of others, yes—
        —and when the call came, this thing took flight, leaving Andraste to wonder, hushedly, as to who-ever would summon her at such at time; disturbance! Nevermind amongst such a moment!

        Half-knowable, now, the beholder of said call;
        and though she cast herself through them all the same, her firstsworn had all but become one with the mists he had pledged himself to. Those avowed lurk no less, and with only a vague, bleary concern does the stricken tread ever onward towards the thinning perimeters. 

When gaze drapes upon the haggard, inked, figure, Andraste is a thinning fragment of porcelain pillar. Her step does not hasten in the manner it might have when she had been Aurëwen; shorn features an unassuming wonderment; argent brow knit, vaguely addled. There are many lulls in her arrival, and yet, when she eventually shrouds before him—

" ... Vercingetorix,”
and the name is canted as enquiry and statement on the wisping tones of tongue; cloudthick recognition arrives in the treachery of a faint, faltering whimper  (how past-lived!)  as if wondering at herself and at the male before her. Even as she now knows who he is; even as a fragment within might presume as to why he had ever come to the Weald.

        Yet her eyes still gleam faraway, even as they settle upon the iridescence of his own.