Sawtooth Spire the art of war is of vital

i'm so sorry, wintersbane's ear flickers as gracious offers her condolences to him in a low, quiet whisper. though the tundrian isn't sure he'll ever truly be over the deaths of the women he's loved in his life he also knows and acknowledges that he cannot be torn about their untimely departure forever ...for, as callous as he knows it sounds, they are dead and he is alive and he has to live his life.

a furrow of his brow is given as the woman steps nearer to him, glacial gaze watching the slow, drawn out measure of her steps as if gauging his reaction to her proximity. the touch of her muzzle against his scarred cheek is ...surprising; surprising yet that it draws forth a soft shudder down the curve of his spine but wintersbane doesn't pull away. her words reverberate in his mind and he considers them and that, ultimately, she's right. what is the use of locking himself up? it wouldn't bring andraste or relmyna back and it would do nothing but hurt him in the end.

❝i believe you're right.❞ he rumbles in quiet thought, despite that there will come trepidation with the next love he feels; a natural reaction to the nagging suspicion that he is cursed nonetheless.