Northstar Vale ich bin nur in einer furcht

The weakened son raises an eyebrow as the stranger's tones warble apologetically. The stricken failed o comprehend why they were so — impassioned by an innocent inquiry. he large male had been ridden with grief, sewed like lace like a seidenkleid. If the stricken wa meant to die, his remains would wade away in the rivers of the wilds. If he was destined to fall, he wouldn't have proudly toted the mark of cain, the four pointed star on a cold crest. His tones are as soothing and coherent as the benevolent doe:

❝ Don't be saddened,❞ he shyly smiled, something found rare in his old form. ❝ Repose is necessary. There's a void in . . . here,❞ he moans slowly, tilting the tip of the head towards the winter's bane; quietly, suggestively. Repurposing his eyes to notion the frail ribs that threatened to portrude his cold, heaving sides.

❝ You don't suppose, you know how to  . . . fill?❞ they contemplate on this; this handsome stranger. Perhaps they were had been lost as well. Forlorn and wishing for soemthing to be undone; grieiving a fallen fae and the title he had laid here to stay with her in the vale; the womb of the sun basking stone spires. Woe is me!, what his countenance sings as he traveres the vale with familiar sorrows. 

That is something that made them truly the same, yes.