Hushed Willows like one of those old greek tragedies

lave, one of the newest to join follows after him as he splits from the group after informing them that this is where they will rest and lay claim to, to begin the tedious process of mapping out unmade borders and marking them. at least this time, it is not wholly from scartch though few have been lost upon the way. he understands; losing andraste hurts none more than it hurts him. 

glacial gaze flickers to lave idly; glad for her company even if he does not immediately break the silence that settles over him. ❝it will serve us nicely,❞ melkor murmurs in agreement when he does ward away his self-made silence. if he's been here before in his travels ( surely he has! ) he can't rightly recall; hazy with grief that seizes him. mapping borders, however, listening to the sound of her footfalls echoing after his own is cathartic.

this, however, wasn't his first rodeo losing someone he loves. it is a tragedy that seems intent to plague him; like a loop that he cannot seem to shake. this morn, he thinks of relmyna too. ❝the return of the prey is well-timed and from the scents this territory appears to be self-suistaining which is ideal.❞ he gives pause then to mark a stretch of grass; a mixture of urine and scratch of his pawpads along the hard, still-frozen earth, digging past dirtied snow to reach it.