Nova Peak schädigen

spurned again, mahler was unsure of how much venom from wylla he could bear any longer. but thus he did, molars grinding in the pocket of his jaw as she laid bare all his shortcomings once more. he had meant to impress upon her the nature of his devotion, but it had been another mistake; fodder for her ire to catch and consume.
all her grievances poured betwixt them like poisoning oil, and mahler caught his breath between the fire of wylla's sentences. so belatedly he saw now the way in which she had so needed him to love her, and the way he had chosen to show it instead. even their brief intermission in tense words after he had returned from the cliffside, and she had come back again in her own way. mahler had not trusted it, had expected the lurking miasma of her own misery with him to eke out again.
and as he bore her words, mahler wondered with a great spreading immobility if he was not made for that sort of affection. his belonged to the land, to his children, to his protection of sagtannet. it was his own shortcoming to analyze but in the interim between his endless thoughts and introspection, he had lost her.
she was cobwebbed with the hundred wounds mahler had pierced through the thin smokescreen of what he had offered as love; he saw it and the blackening valuelessness of it.
nyx did not want him, he believed; she wished the parts of him he could not surrender, and so it was only a fantasy, an idealized version of the careworn man who had sired her children. the love — he was unsure if he could even call it so when so much had embittered the word — shared by mahler and by wylla had almost always been fraught with contention.
and the root of his resentments trailing back to himself; her words had torn down the stones of him one by one, and though his anger was true, the eye of the storm was his own sin.
icewrought winds flowing through the evergreens.
as if slowed, mahler watched through blurred vision as she turned away
— the press of her small paws against the hard earth, the cold grace of her being — she was not going to come back/a final departure/a goodbye threaded into the tension of her small silver frame.
mahler's broad paws flexed against the taiga; helplessly, dumbly, he watched wylla began to fade, as if she were some specter he had not meant to behold, and the stone depths of his cold heart ached with a sickening slash.
"vylla," softly at first, and then again more loudly; he came after her, for mahler could not bear to let her go; it would be the end, the end; i'm done resounding in her ears, and a choking sound welling in his throat,
her name again; and the blind stumble of his granite build after her as she began to tear from his spirit a portion of it shaped in her likeness. words evading him after his discontent and her wrath; he wore one scar of her teeth upon him already, invited more, if only she would stay, stop, stop — "please."