Sawtooth Spire and i'd call you atlas

just as melkor pushes off the tree — leaving behind a tuft of fur snagged by the rough bark — a soft gasp catches his attention. he assumes, before his head even swings in stag's direction, that the wolf is not one of his own from the vale. suspicion is proven correct as his glacial gaze settles on the boy, downy ivory in color that gives him a distinct advantage in the snow, the youngster's tail raised. he's about quellcrist's age, if melkor had to guess.

❝easy there young soturi,❞ melkor says, the tundrian word for 'warrior' slipping off his tongue. ❝i led courtfall here.❞ he says before mahler appears, introducing them and explaining that stag is the son of diaspora's late founder. he takes no offense to the protectiveness of the borders — in fact, the tundrian is glad for it. ❝a prince, huh? that's impressive.❞ spoken without an ounce of mockery. melkor had been a prince too, at one time. an heir, at the very least; even though he'd long since had known would things have gone how they were supposed to arturo would've chosen malliadh for his successor in the end.