Moonspear fulthark

He would mourn her for a while, but inevitably thoughts of Blondine would blend with thoughts of other things, or dissipate like fog, only to coalesce at the worst moment possible. Tiny moments of fleeting cognizance held together by a scattering of people - real or imagined - keeping him together like soggy duct tape that has been reapplied one too many times. He needs something new to fix him, even if it is only temporary. Maybe this is the end for him - to be homeless, destitute, roaming the world as if he is the last man on earth. Or maybe there is another route presenting itself to him.

Larus is ignorant of Dirge's frustration, though he feels eyes upon himself, and when he hears the man's low voice full of consternation it is almost the wake-up-call he requires. He sits up a little straighter, his ears pivot until that booming voice is so loud its drilling in to his brain, and while Larus curls his tail and hunches his shoulders again, he is more alert than before. Focused, to a point.

Either you're ill or you're too consumed by your grief— the man begins his diatribe, transforming in to a father figure that Larus has never really known. Did he ever meet his father? Njal would hate him; he was a snivelling mass of forgotten pieces, never a warrior, never so committed to anything as to earn a title or hold a claim. He's never even looked at his father before; he doesn't know that the silver sheen he thinks he sees is some ancestral memory of those that came before; he sees fire where the gold filigrees in the man's coat, and remembers the red coat of an old woman yelling at him. Now I've watched you trail my border—your nose should have told you long before that your Blondine is not here.

Blondine. What was a Blondine? But he is silent, watchful, cautious with his eyes.

What end are you hoping to achieve? The man finishes.

Larus, so still and so very pathetic, isn't given any time to think. He word vomits instead — I don't want to die out here, alone. It is as clear as he's going to get, spurred in to that clarity by the hard edge in the rival man's own voice. I'll be better, he promises, but any such claim is futile and he doesn't even know it. Anything—I'll do anything. Please, I don't... I can't be alone again.