Northstar Vale daimort

Some time afterwards this.

"Would you show me?"

It had been a full bell since the little band of unassuming daredevils had returned to the lands they meant to settle upon; and now the stricken turns to the youngest of their Court  ( whom she has already, furtively dubbed opolinte ),  halfsight alighting upon the rivulets of half-worn blood upon the ashen breast.

Fed, they and theirs now were; but she was remorseful that she had no properties on-paw to treat the daring @Dagwood with.

The very least that she supposes she is able to do is to inspect his new marring — neverminding her own, for she was infuritating as ever in that manner — and then to see what might be foraged throughout the Vale, or, in the end, elsewhere entirely. For now, though ...  "Those beasts did not mark you further, I presume?"

Blood, now half-dried and matted, appeared in various shades from crimson to mahogany - the brighter of the two clinging closer to the wound itself.

Strangely enough the pain had not set in until he'd taken notice to the blood slathered on his chest, but when it did set in, it felt as if someone had taken a nail gun to his breastbone. Any cough or heavy breathing only made things worse and while he was no stranger to injuries, evident by the many works of art scarring his body, this one was by far the worst.

So, when the pale fae offered to take look at the wound, Dagwood made no objections. He let pearly haunches fall to the earth's floor while lifting his head upward, providing plenty of room for her to inspect the parting gift left by their meal.

"No, just there" he let out in a hissed breath, unable to hide the pain any longer.

With the yearling's permission, Andraste knelt closer as he lifted his chin further:
welting red and terrible and red, the eagle's final stand had been immortalized upon the ashlar breastbone; marring its way from the base of throat and very near towards sternum's end.
It was hideous, to say the very least; but not any more than her own nicking that she'd recieved — not that she'd been able to get a proper look at either renting upon her spine.

All the same, the stricken's shorn brow furrowed at what she found, here:  "Yarrow, for ze bleeding, if there are any left to atone for ze mending,"  Dagwood's hiss scything through words intoned absently. Yarrow, yes ... and webs, for one could never be too careful. But what else? What else might he need?

"I would be surprised, if you have never hunted birds in ze past,"  the sybil settled upon for now, beckoning with a dusting of tail for him to follow on a meager forage; until she was certain she could away somewhere nearer, with more promise of tending to him.

"Yarrow?" he inquired, head tilting downward to try and peek at the wound and it's crimson residue. "My mother always preferred goldenrod" he shared aloud, fondly recalling the many times his dame would comically curse the white, foul tasting herb to hell.

"My family are a willowy and tenderhearted clan, we often did not hunt game that could wound us back" he announced while moving to tread behind the pale fae, a few scarlet drops staining the earth beneath him.

Dwarfed, again;
the yearling drew alongside her, speaking fond of homespun mem'ry and a mother who preferred goldenrod to treat her then-whelp with. The faintest trace of amusement laced the shorn lips, though not at all to condescend—  "In her honor, then, we will look for goldenrod, too."  Another feathering of the tail, then:  "Neither did mine. Usually. Then again, upon excursions, sometimes our huntsmen would wager who of them could garner ze most feathers."  And it may have very well been for distraction, for the frustrations from elusive quarry ...

Her tread became more pensive; ears casting away with some uncertainty, as she could not yet see tale-tell of either herb they now foraged for. Soon, she hoped, or she might resort to stilling the flow of laceration with mud, of all things.

The corner of leathery lips pulled upward to mold the foundation of a guileless smile, so true and authentic in it's nature that he felt the very tension in his muscles relax at her words.

"Perhaps the court should hold a tourney once settled, a way to celebrate and fill the caches" he suggested, silently wondering if the court's ruler had any festivities in mind for the future. Whether it be for when the earth stopped it's rumbling or the court's founding, Dagwood believed a celebration was to be held. They had made it this far after all, so why not memorialize it in a day of revelry?

Those words, tracing upon her mind's inventions;
"There has been a manner of that in my mind. It ... it is more suitable for ze Weald's mists, truthfully. I had ze thinking that every few times each moon, our members would divide themselves into two, equal segments; a fox pelt ze achieving item. It was my hope that I could condition my wolves with strategy, by way of intermitten ambush. However, I do think that we may accomodate it to this Vale."  She had slowed, with all that she had spoken— but, then, it was not necessarily a tourney—

Apologetic argents found the gleam of sage eyes; terrible rambling would be an adamant trait, always.  "Forgive me,"  the stricken wisps, a tad more than abashed,  "I believe a celebratory rite would be wonderful. A judged duel, to test might, and to know who would lead us upon that hunt, for morale, yes. ... Held, perhaps, each solstice?"

He did not mind the pale fae's musings, for his people were a quiet folk in both mind and mouth and easygoing rabble was often viewed as an affectionate symbol of the faith held within each other.

"Your idea with the fox pelts reminds me much of the athrawon from my home. They were teachers that often put together a series of games to help build upon the youth's skills." Should youngsters ever bless their ranks one day, he'd hope to pass a piece of his culture onto them.

As for what they could do now, "each solstice sounds wonderful. Perhaps one day we might even invite our neighboring allies to join in." It was custom in his former clan to invite their comrades to join in on the song and dance once a year - a way of strengthening ties and ensuring their friendly relationship remained steadfast in the upcoming seasons.  

“Certainly. I see no reason why they cannot ... look upon our sessions, to begin.” For though indeed she had spoken to its General beneath the Moonspire of partnership, she could not yet foresee whether or not Diaspora would remain where-ever they now lie within the spires. Should they take their leave from them, she ... no. No — it was unspeakable, selfish, entire. And so Andraste drew from the depths of her thoughts in time to hear the yearling's musings: fox pelts, an old clan, its mæsters.

“As for teachings ... perhaps we will amend our rites for such in due time. Perhaps we might don our allies in all ze feathers we have acquired,”  an imp’s grin,  “and keep ze pelts to ourselves. ...Although, I do suppose trade between our own and others would be beneficial as well.”  A lull. Then:  “All that is needed, then, is to see who we might greet into our interests.”

Lost in their forethought's, Dagwood had completely forgotten about the very reason they were wandering the vale in the first place. His wound, still pooling tiny beads of scarlet, was now nothing more than a second thought in the back of his mind, long buried beneath wishful thinking of the future.

"If you know of any who might come to collaborate with us, I would be happy to make the trip and speak on the court's behalf." Whether or not she trusted him to do so remained unknown to the monochrome yearling but, he believed she was needed here in the heart of their would-be home, especially when they were so close to founding.

permission to pp!

Once upon a time, she had been of a meager mind as to do so with Kaistleoki; it had not occured to her how long it'd been since she'd seen the riverlands themselves, and even longer since she had recollected that she'd once been amongst them; seperate but there. There, too, was Diaspora; they who they might take more kindly to such a brutish rite than others. Perhaps, then, she might allow Dagwood to further appeal to them, in that sense.

In the end, though, there was goldenrod to be found; fraying and a paltry substitution ... but eventually the stricken promised a more surer betterment to the yearling, and after looking over his person once more, she called @Agana to her side; and away the two females went to that green underworld and all that they hoped to unearth.