Sawtooth Spire the art of war is of vital

he didn't pull away from her, the gesture continued and he seemed to appreciate it. sometimes words couldn't match up to actions; she was glad she was able to help him in such a subtle way. touch, the prickling of skin and fur against one another, be it a shoulder or a nose or a cheek. it was precious, comforting, and timeless.

"she didn't choose to leave you," she whispered to him, "nor did your last love. your heart was more than ready to give itself up to them. it was fate, a cruel and wicked beast. nothing you did could be at fault." wintersbane was more gentle than she'd imagined speaking to, but she appreciated every bit of him. caring and thoughtful, a man who would listen. the position of eisen was destined for him. gracious would follow until he provoked feelings otherwise.

"perhaps, you may find another to love her in sagtannet. there are many beautiful faces here, from diaspora and those who have come to join us. leave your heart open, but you don't have to rush." she had seen a few, not all, but a few here in the spire. golden eyes or dark russet coats, plenty of hearts that could be woed. now that needed to happen was a larger introduction to them.

"you are a good man. in the end, they are rewarded dear wintersbane."