Moonspear time is up, time has flown

The unease was something that they shared. He hated it.

The worries of the world were better left for his son's elders.

"After all we've endured, I suppose it's natural," he conceded, uncertain if that was reassuring at all. Probably not; Dirge found it difficult to assure himself that they weren't on the cusp of yet another trial. It was a wearying thing—in spite of being a thing that was not tangible, it possessed a chokehold that was more than willing to restrict them. If it were able, it would certainly do more.

"It is wise to never grow complacent," he went on, "though we are inclined to do so. Our upkeep of our claim seems to invite an assortment of troubles, but they would be far worse if we did not." Wretches and fiends, wayward souls, and more; he was loathe to imagine what things would be like had they grown lax with the winter.

Even then, the world would do as it pleased.