Moonspear we just sell different parts of ourselves

melkor

a ghost of a name. a man that no longer existed; surely having been laid to rest with andraste.

as it is good to see you well, kukutux. he returns in a soft murmur; words genuine and softly rasping.

please, call me wintersbane, the tundrian asks of her softly, with a small, perhaps forlorn smile that does not touch his glacial gaze. it was my name before andraste gave me 'melkor'.

which, he supposes, is the only natural lead towards the words that he does not wish to say again; a memory that he does not wish to rehash. still, he assumes that kukutux does not know and feels it only right that andraste's windowed husband be the one to tell her. andraste, he gives a small clear of his throat. has been gone— he hopes kukutux gleams his meaning and the finality of the word 'gone' without him having to say she is 'dead' for even in his mind it sounds such a crass thing to say. for a year now, maybe more. ...if you hadn't heard.

wintersbane's time following her death had been far from idle as he threw himself into work and danger with a reckless sort of abandon.