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

mahler was a man, and as all men did, bore failings that cracked up to the surface like ice in spring. yet, perhaps through his love for wylla, he had become aware of such faultlines, and aspired to be a better man than before. he saw how the paths he had taken had tangled; how they had hurt and affected all those whom he truly loved.
and how love forced a hierarchy in their world, simply by way of the roles they played within sagtannet.
mahler swallowed a bit as her small shoulders swelled within his embrace and began to shake with the tormented, trembling sobs that scintillated through one's breast until exhausted, the agonized sound of one's heart pierced over and over.
mahler felt the horrid tepid water upon his cheek even as hers burned through the fur of his chest. there his heart thudded with a sudden anvil of throatsick sorrow. "yes, vylla," for she deserved more than platitudes and promises. she deserved at last the truth, not whatever half-hope he had wanted to serve, in any regard.
she would feel him quake then, a single ripple as the gargoyle closed his eyes and allowed himself a single hoarse breath, all fractions of himself atomized and sliced and colored black with pain — a wormwood cup for both of them to swallow.