Nova Peak all nearness pauses, while a star can grow

read only. all tags for reference. tl;dr, arrives at night and some time after thade gets back

The drapery of night drinks again from the sun's honeywine luster;
Woe, woe is he! The boy beneath himself, his heart only writhes like an injured earthworm should any of the spire-weavers chance upon him, like this. During the argent blade's disembarkment to Sagtannet, his heart had been anything but steady. Now, returned to the star-summit
( a glimmer of a tear, a bullet glides down his cheek )
accompanied by a ruined left cheek and eyne; throbbing, throbbing, throbbing. Entertaining the thought of tender-touch makes him squiggle as a myriad of twisted, lacerated flesh (none at all by design!) and sinew melds into the cicatrix that is now his crest of sufferings—!

( how he laments for that war-hammer jaw
to kiss his forehead! )

“Stay away. D-don't,” to @Condor, “Don't follow me. I-I'll...I'll kill you.”  The wiccan murmurs the threat lowing, yet hushed over his chapped lips with loafing tongue, less-than intimidating leer boring into the back of the triad's first until their coat had dimmed into the evergreens. A violent knell in his cranium sends his head aquiver, cruelly reminding him of how his mind was rent in two, crumpling like peeling gold gilded to an iron apparatus. Pinched cheeks sip a faltered breath; solemn and slow he treks, expecting to find his father on the bastion of their claim.

@Agana, you'd promised me a 
tiny Bethlehem.
"My little Astraeus."

The fawnling does not find the gargoyle on their borders, instead he finds the scents carried by the breath of the mountains, Wylla, Thade. As quickly as it came, as quickly it had gone, that was how love was he assumed. No wonder he hadn't caught a lick of any Sagtannet wolves, they hadn't given a lick about him. Thade was back. Mahler was done was with him —
and all that heartache and ire garners at the base of his throat, breast drumming, booming a million beats like a war drum on the frontier. His hearth threatens to leap from his tongue and flee!
(terrible terrible terrible people are terrible)

 

( the clandestine murmurings of
p a p a! ) 

@Mahler, you'd promised me a fatherly kind of love,
a love we'd place on a plinth for the world to see

@Wintersbane, you said you'd
 t a k e  c a r e  o f  m e  n o w

Poured from the sun's crock, winsome yam oranges, amaranth pinks and iris purples dilute like watercolor in stilled ponds, but all the cowbird can think is how he'll ne'er trust neither man or women again.