Northstar Vale there, on the small of his back,

listen we're really grinding out these threads tonight. @Andraste

who will i be?

shadow was sick of hunting. there wasn't much for him to go after, and the things that were around, they didn't seem too appetizing. this had never been his job when he was in a pack! of all the alphas he'd claimed allegiance to, not one had ever demanded he hunt.

hopefully, this one was the same. shadow stood beside the border and sent out a call. it wouldn't be long before a response, he knew it! and then, he could eat.

BIG EYEs ooo

Much of this early eve had been spent skulking along faded preytrails, worn and wearied by clawed and cloven step alike; sifting through all that which was yet to be found within the very Vale. When Andraste was not sharing these days bartering ambitions with her people  (and likewise listening, of course),  she was peering beneath many a root; sniffing amongst every cranny for some way and reason to expand these inner territories for all.
And so it was that from such a little exploration was the fée forging, with the beckoning having fluted through the winterwinds. Whoever this rogue be, he did not have to wait long for the arrival of Undómiel;
she who stood now before him, all that she lacked in stature made up for in gentle grace unending:  "Elen sila lumenn' omentielvo, wanderer,"  the silver lilts, foreign and floral.  "What is it that you seek in ze realm of ze Courtfall?"

a princess, and thus, a prince.

the sylph took each step with care, an airy unconcern for the world around her. the sheet of snow that blanketed her shoulders was vibrant enough to rival the frost which lay against the earth. shadow was taken with awe, his mouth partially agape as she began to speak.

— and speak she did! the foreign words traced the base of each ear, leaving the angel's kiss as they passed. her accent was soft, sweet; strong, but not indiscernible. he bowed. oh, how beautiful, he breathed.

this would be his best performance yet, shadow decided.

within your ranks, pray tell, is there room for another? shadow reminded himself that whatever act he put on now, he'd need to maintain it for the duration of his stay. take it easy, now. i am simply starved, you see.

He breathed of beauty, and so bowed for it;
​and the fée, shorn brow still laden with all that she had wended through and , promptly believed that this wanderer spoke of the loveliness of the very land; had it not been forgiving to her Courtiers? Had it not been spared the desecration of the earth's autumnal shivering?  "This vale has been as fortuitous as it has been fair,"  she complied, thin ears tucking away with half-ponderous wonderment.  "We should have ze room to accommodate another; though I fear, however, that ze winters have not yet granted us such a blessing to dine from."

Perhaps in the saying of such things would be the bane of said ranks, with those who yearned to meld themselves amongst them. And, as they seemed to be speaking of such ...  "We are a stronghold; a sanctuary. I must know, then, what it is that you have become of this world; what your passions be; where your professions lie,"  chords patient; a quietness.

there was no food. shadow grimaced at the thought of starving through another winter but knew that he would find the same answer at any border he approached. the famine of the autumn left caches throughout the wilds desolate and without reprieve. 

so, it was okay. they would proceed. 

i'm a chronicler by trade, he fibbed, a historian, ma'am. would this suffice? she didn't seem to expect one answer over an another. is this okay? i-i can change it.

"Change?"
The elfin and sunknived was left blinking with nothing short of wondering bewilderment; shorn brow come to furrow.  "Ze choice of such a change is up to only you. If you think that ze customs of a storyteller are of any less import than that of a solider then, please — enlighten me."  Lashes, heavy and half-veiled over the argents that rest upon the dark countenance; yet, perhaps then she might implore of this ... this ...  "What is it that you call yourself, scholar?"

Tones low, patient;
features set into some quiet airiness that, in the later hours of this moon, would one day begin to chill over.

For now, though, there was only an absent pall of awaiting his words.