Deepwood Weald ships on vigor

Lótë's spring gaze slid to the side, observing the edge of the ostman's pale visage as he spoke of blood. "It is," she confirmed in her soft lilt. "But that is not to say that they don't sometimes take. All gods do." There was something that tugged at the corner of her lips -- something rather somber -- as her gaze returned to the path before her. 

Aiwëndil had been lost. And even the dove who had become Lótë knew what it was to love and lose precious things, all on the whims of spirits and gods.