Moonspear ausländer

Hydra listened to him, warming to his praise. She was a vain woman—to be called admirable hit the right chord within her. His hope was nearly missed, but she had heard it; he was eloquent, this man, and she suspected his use of language was intentional. Dirge was not simply a consort to her, but her equal; his judgment was always considered with her own, and he tempered her more savage desires. My husband and King support me, she rejoined, her tone warm as she supplied him with what he may have wondered, gaze searching. Dirge did more than that; he lifted her, caused her to consider all things she otherwise may not have. His own age brought a different sort of wisdom, one that she used for all of its worth; he was priceless to her. 

He spoke of the children—his, or perhaps Stigmata's this past year?—and how they were to be raised. With a wolfish grin, Hydra drawled: they all seem to know to listen to their mother before any other, for mothers were the giver of all they had ever received in their youth... most importantly, their life. As for belonging, though, indeed their visions aligned perfectly there; they were to be raised by all of Moonspear. Most were already family, and those that were not family by blood would become so in name for the time they remained. 

And as he answered her question, Hydra's gaze upon him became all the more attentive. She need not look where she was going to know her next steps, but she did while she herself considered what he could mean. Lunging up to come upon a ridge not too far where Andraste was settled, Hydra looked back to him and said with a nod: I know as much. She paved her way with such knowledge. But it did not answer her question; what was his desire? Or perhaps he would get to that, and so her gaze lingered upon him, patient in its nature. He had spoken of exchange; did he have something in mind, or was he simply detailing his thoughts? She awaited more of his accented words, finding herself eager to hear them.