Northstar Vale this is exactly what kojima envisioned

@Eros. Midway point to Hushed Willows. CF tags just for ref (ily)

Within the fellowship of two, the fée found the yearling to be a boon for this little waysward. She had since relieved herself of the downed garb upon their initial meet; for all that there seemed plenty of in-between their shared hours to again look after her own person, the modesty of her hide's hygiene did not matter; adamant: still unkempt in places that could not be helped; still wisping, so she looked half as a wildling would, errant. All pretenses of trivial societal presentations were promptly forgotten, however, as the realm of all that hers seeked to claim soon  (not soon enough!)  opened misted arms to her her her once more—!

She might have lost herself as a frostarrow might, and Eros may have very well been the mistaken bow; but the stricken only loosed a fluting unsummons to all those of her Court who dwelled below, lower, further, farther — I guide one beyond our realm. Look to @Agana in my absence — and then, somehow, settled herself. Cast her halfsights through the daybright cascades; quieted.

Travelling was nothing new to him; for how many years has he been a wayward soul now? Too many, perhaps, but it was but a way of life so ingrained into his very essence that he wondered if he might ever be stripped of it. Second nature—first, even, he wasn’t too sure anymore—and a seemingly permanent component to his existence. Yet, this woman he found himself following, revealed herself to be cut from a different cloth. And how refreshing it was to realise, many of those he’d met over the years just the same as him: alone and content to remain that way, loyalty promised to none other than himself. But he did wonder how the other side of the coin lived, intrigued by the inner-workings of a solidified pack—how they may differ from the Keep, those memories the only he possessed to use for comparison.

Eros found himself observing the woman as she called out to the Vale, the meanings not lost on him. This was her home, he presumed, and she, their leader. A dweller of the range, just as he once was; had the peaks bore her the same as they had him, or was she merely an immigrant, settling into foreign lands? “This is your home,” he stated as she settled, fleeting gaze tracing the treetops before flicking back to her. “I visited this place once, a long time ago…” The memory felt like a dream now, the faces within it blurry, but he knew the land was the same—it was peaceful, the sense of safety that the walls provided easily remembered.

A mere nod of affirmation;
her dwelling and that of her people, yes. It is when he speaks of his own mem'ry of this selfsame vale-visitation that Andraste steps from the perimeters; invites him to indulge a promenade by her side as they begin their slow revolution through the chambers of ridges and o'er crag.  "I hope that ze recollection of this place has been kind upon your life,"  the fée murmurs, truthful.

She meant it well; perhaps such a stay within this secluded place had helped meld the male into whom-ever he had become today, as the willows had.

When she moved, he followed suit, paying careful attention to where he stepped and where they were going; in his youth, the thought of ever retracing his steps to return whence he originated never crossed him but, now as an adult, he was far more experienced. He knew how to properly use his senses, the scents and sights around him, to gauge where he might be and which paths were necessary in order to reach his desired location. This experience guided him, his evaluation of the world around him taken unconsciously, gradually engraving the directions into his mind so that he may not lose his way.

The woman spoke as they walked, whilst he could only shake his head dismissively. “The memory is one that has begun to fade,” he admitted. “My time here was unimportant, accompanied by wolves that I have not spared even a thought in years now.” Truth be told, he couldn’t even remember the reason behind his previous visit. “But,” he continued. “It is interesting that I ended up back here, nevertheless.” What were the chances?

"Would you think it to be fate?"  were the inquiring tones. For all that Andraste had wrought in her new living and had believed thus far  (the sunlashing, the love in the tending, this misted path),  her own views of such a claim was as murk as oil within waterpaint, at best. To be struck down ever further into the earth with a stamp from the heavens; to be romanced, despite all she had chosen to thus leave behind, to do — it all could not merely be without some occult element. And yet: should she even ponder such things? Must she make another do the same?  "Many views look to be ... understandably myriad."

Would you think it to be fate?

What a thought to consider. He pondered how he might respond, contemplating his own views and whether or not the statement was applicable. Fate was not necessarily a concept that he was familiar with, nor one that he was entirely sure he believed there to be any truth behind. It was a silly notion, honestly; that forces beyond what could be experienced through his senses might be the determining factor ruling over every decision made in life. He wasn’t particularly fond of the idea that free will might not exist—he refused to even consider that it might not exist, truthfully.

“I don’t think so,” he decided, turning his head to spy her reaction. “I do not believe fate exists, I’m afraid. It’s a coincidence that we met and that you brought me here.” A string of coincidences, completed by her knowledge of Hushed Willows. A pleasant string, too.

A fair thought, that. Andraste found herself likening to the gilded's way of mind; though she could not speak of coincidence either, she supposes that the latter reason is a leading one for why she chooses to remain godless. The lack of free will; the subjecting of oneself to a slew of deities long since gone unresponsive. To all of this, she could not think of what to say, other than to murmur some agreement. Instead:

"And this place of your birth, this pack ... might I ask what it was like?"  If not the foundations, then perhaps what, percisely, had cultivated the young male into who he was today. Andraste has only known of Elysium — but neither Eros nor its wandering and darkling cherub had ever heard of such a settlement. With all that had happened there, perhaps she should not have been so surprised ...

When offense did not cross her features, there was a brief flicker of surprise to lighten his own; he expected her to favour the concept of fate, if only because she was the one to bring it up. But his mind did not linger on the matter, deciding it best left to fade from their conversation. Besides, a woman to remain unoffended was the best company to keep, especially when said woman was to guide him home.

Eros’ attention was redirected when she posed another question, encouraging him to recall memories from long ago. “It was quiet,” he answered, gazing out over the range. “I was not there long. My mother and I were… not on good terms, I suppose, and I never met my father.” There was a distinct lack of familial ties to those lands, and yet, he found himself seeking them out. “I left before I should have, lost to these very mountains,” he continued. “But I find that things tend to become far more appealing than they ever were before when you’ve been away for so long.” All he wanted was to see the state of his first home, what ruins may remain from the Keep—and if the earth there housed any bones of the deceased, haunted by ghosts best left in the past.

last frm mee

This too was what Andraste knows, understands; there is a yearning within her for the mists of the Weald, the hinters of the Lunespire; even of the cold-cave of the riverlands and the thickets of those nomads; of the desolation of Dragedan cliffs and of the desecration of her Rhaesuial. And yet she knows she cannot return — for how might she pick up the threads of a life she believed she would never again live? Was it so, for Eros? Did he too have myriad settlement that oft he pined for, and yet understood that to return to that very place would be to return, somehow, to who-ever it was you had once been?

And yet, she leads him to the willows of his past, all the same; contemplative within the silence of comraderie found when not conversing so.