The Sunspire rather than pictures, i prefer filled palettes, diaries, & times i was asleep

For for this brainless bird, she would have fought tooth and claw and more—
but it was not be, for the mottled halfone named Jigsaw did not advance in a way that spoke of instigation. Inquisitive, rather, the undertones, the explanation; of being a new strider to these spires; of finding food for his belly and exploration for his mind's knowing. The may queen is tempted, truly, to let her silence be prolonged to the point of inelegance; for surely in such silence would easement come to those who so deserved it. Yet ... "Alaquenta,"  is what she eventually wisps, bits of down clutching marred lips;
the pheasant sat between snowshoe paws, regardless of his assurances that he is no threat; despite the glinting honesty therein. Not now—  "I found this bird by chance,"  she continued, slow and soft; what meager fur remains upon stricken spine lifting in reminiscence,  "over ze rises, some way back."  A pause. Then:  "I am Andraste."  She must be;
and the ailing Rusalkan rose must eat.

But it was out of politeness, even in such a state, that the silver deigned to remain sat down.