Moonspear ᵐᵗᵐᵖʰ dornröschen (mtr.)

andraste; remade.
she seemed enthralled with her own inner musings; he could not resist essaying to her side, finding the velvet arch of one ear with his lips. "i must go home," and here his heart ached with a feeling he did not know he possessed. something somnolent and not at all docile, rising with a harsh jut to steal breath from his very lungs.
with hydra, with lyra, with moonspear, would the dove be safe. but andraste knew no fetters, not even those of safety. no soul could hope to keep her if it was not within her spirit to remain. eyes closed; he traced down her scarwrought cheek with his heavy muzzle.
she had restored him, unmade him. the keening of his newly uncovered spirit was for her.
a breeze flickered through the new-hued leaves — it descended to ply them both with cool fingers of air.
diaspora was home, was where his kill-brother had been interred for the never-ending sleep, where he had whelped this season's children.
could he not find part of the same in the bosom of the wandering andraste? mahler marvelled in quietude, her fragrance wreathed around the both of them with an intensity that brought him to mind of the stone plinth and her slender jaws wide-parted upon the edge of a cry.