Moonspear neresā

“Yes.”

Moonbeam eyes studied the greater she-wolf  (much greater)  with a guarded gleam. Had she known who had precisely made such so, she would be— “One-eyed, with a burnished ruff.” As it was, she did not have said inkling as to the reason behind the loss of full vision. Andraste herself still struggled with the aftermath, both the realism and the abstract. But, were his wicked words true, then ... she ...

“He is witlessly full of wit, should you know. And ze crone, well ...”  She turned aside, thin ears swept back from marred guise.  “They would seem to be invincible, together,”  lashes hooded low over halfsight,  “but they are not immortal.”  Her gaze lingered upon Hydra, longer than she might have favored and yet looked through her, listless. But, yes; she would draw the queen and the lord to the place where the Dragedan had fallen.

The eldritch sigil writ upon spine simmered, and something unearthly within her churrs—settles.