Sawtooth Spire But the bruises on your ego make you go wild, wild, wild

in silence he trudged after her. though he could not help the stinging feeling that plagued his gut when she acted so, mahler knew he must not question it. there were no words he might offer that could assuage the pain upon the strings of her heart.
this time, however, she had not railed at him, nor reacted. mahler let his eyes travel the line of her back, then dropped his gaze aside. he did not speak, only continued to use of his worthless flesh as veil against the sharp bite of the thin ghosts that swarmed here.
no words to be conjured; only the ache of his heart and the way mahler knew wylla must feel, but unable to go to her and unwilling to cause her more strife, he was only seized by a sudden helplessness.
he swallowed the ice upon the wind; he held fast to the feel of his paws in the snow, and quiet, pressed on not too closely as he trailed her flank and hunched his shoulders against the slash of sagtannet.