Thunder Dome ❝arwa macilo matsë yétalyë rúcim' ulundo acolë caurë❞

AW but paging @Grimsley!

Her ears tilt forward, eyes making a reverent pass over the barricade of daunting, pocked stone that holds her Vale like two hale arms. Heavy shadows draped across the brushwood and stony earth, seizing her dwellsome Courtiers in unassuming dark. She had throated her departure to the skies an hour hence, and now takes a breath; hitches in her throat as it always does, escaping back again as a small gasp—Home. Finally, for every moment spent listless amongst these Wilds is a chasming of her soul. Argent halfsight alights upon this slumberous volcano, flames long since guttered, a shiver cracks up her spine like lightning—

It is a phantom thing;
a simmering welding into the welts that have gnarled into tapestry nearly two  (three?)  moons ago. And as the fairylight looks upon this for-everly sunknived stone, she cannot help but wonder what that very same mark must look like, fed into her own flesh. She hadn't known how the constellations had thread themselves for four dawns and moonrises, then; but now, the fae knows somewhere high above, veiled by evening, is Remmirath, looming over the westward tines of the Sunspires like watchful sentinels.

Mahler.

The nightingale presses onward; the airs without petrichor but held by harvest chill; wondering if there might be some green, tucked away and tittering amongst all this desolation.