Blacktail Deer Plateau & they will hang us in the louvre

When last she’d been here, the amber of evening had caught bloodied fangs, all winking in the light; and its dimming air had been brimming with slavering snarls and invidious damnations. Her ribs had been shorn, and though pinked and faded with the half-moon, there was a tick of a phantom’s ache — and her wisping ruff shivered, too, as the specter himself rose to greet her with an enquiry.

“Yes.”
Broken in body, in soul, but,
“Breathing. Mending,”

It was the likewise, ridden grief which she’d seen in the eyes of her son’s tender, of his father she’d once loved, and of the gargoyle who’d once cranes over him so; she’d seen it in most of the gazes of those of Kaistleoki, and then to those meager few who she’d portended the sorrowful news to.
There was a part of Aurëwen that was so loathe to breathing that her son was broken — he was, and not, and yet remained so in several sorts of myriad.

As with these wolves within her life  (whether willing or reluctant to remain)  so too did the pale druid feel such incompetence; that it had been her fault in its entirety; and that there was no reason to better her well-being if she couldn’t do the same for her Dragomir.

Mothers were meant to nurture, and she— she finally turned from her post, crescenting about to face the legionnaire in full.  “Have you ever enjoyed it? Killing?” ...Assuming he’d been contracted for such, of course, and even out of necessity.

Her own gentled with something inscrutable, wistful despite the wrathful scars upon it. She could understand it, where competition was concerned; the triumph over one’s enemy. But did every warrior, sellfang, hireling or such truly enjoy taking the breath of others?