Moonspear take charge of your life

A flick of the ear; better to move on from matters of children, as it were.

Where Aurëwen had dreamt to be a mother, and she could no longer uphold that vision; she was Andraste, now, and the responsibility of Andraste was to found some manner of her own fortress. As the queen before her went at length about some shared dream ... ah, Stigmata. A ghost of a curl at her lips; a mistaken vision on both their parts; a judgement that hadn't ever needed to take place. She had understood this early, and also, not. Airly:  "Should I acknowledge your claim of ze Wilderness, what then? What of my own wolves? We will be sages, more-so than soldiers."

The resilience that had stood against the spirelord was a mere murmur in Andraste's proposition; what-ever had caused her to have brought about such conflict was now paltry. Most might say that she had been remade well enough, all for the worse.

Gods — please let there be no tithe! 

"As for ze matters of Diaspora,"  the stricken resumed, lashes heavy, pensive,  "do you mean to strike bargain with them? Draw them from ze spires which, I presume, they remain so covetous for?"  Mahler  (Mahler!)  had not brought up such machinations with the silver — but, then, who was she to be told the diplomatic affairs of those she had banished herself of? She was an inpatient, twice-over exile.

And what she had wondered at through his tears, she ... no, no. She was no longer pionier. There would be no worth in telling one so unloyal to claim and country as she. None!—

Bitterness on the tongue; 
"Of course, I suspect that I will ... accomodate my sages to ze weald's terrain, in some fashion. As for any terrain where battle must be had ..."  quiet; adrift, in labyrinthine thought. Perchance her striders could investigate the lands around them, or—