Northstar Vale vivid echoes of the dream on his mind

I randomized packs the other day, and got Courtfall. p: Looks like we will get our thread, @Andraste? This takes place after his encounter with Maud, I am uncertain if/how damaged he will be so vague on that front, but feel free to reference.

The stench of rot clings to the freed soldier. Each step heavy, dragging his bulk, yet he feels little to no pain. A buzz trembles underneath his skin, muscles trembling at the exertion. The Wayfarer never stops, however, and he does not care of the drenched scents nearby—seeping into boulder, rock and path alike.

Blood drips behind him in a rhythm. It keeps him company, along with the panted breaths. Winter carries on, snow covering the Wilds in a blinding white—it’s pure brilliance marred by the red trail left. Fortunately the sun stays hidden, tucked behind a blanket of gloomy greys and a chilling breeze.

A breeze that carries the scent of food, and that is what he latches hungrily onto, across borders.

me too! staying vague w her own encounter so it's chill

Misery;
with a stinging press of lashes to shorn cheek, all that the argent Quetehltë has coaxed from the chasm is wearily, wanly returned. The stricken must not feel such things: not when she is the evenstar of her people and must be undimming; must be a vessel through which the beat of only their hearts chorused through. Tenderness and turmoil, fright and fascination — it must be theirs and from the very souls of them. Theirs is all that little waxen Andraste should feel,
for there should be nothing else to be felt.

And she must press forth from all the fissures within her.

Such a severe settlement she had been sat in;
and though there was not very much to be had of it, Undómiel unfurled her stature up into the heights she did not let herself wonder at the worthiness of, and began to stride a strong, way towards the bloody and bent creature;
a rare erring on the side of caution, no matter how he has staggered so far beyond these Court's borders already. Healing, hurting — which would he wish for?

i suck SORRY FOR THE WAY

One-track mind leads him further, striding upon snow-covered grounds—slick in the Vale full of dead foliage and rock. Toes spread wide, gripping what surface he can, as he walks with a heavy step—weakened by the injuries he sustained, and further still by the blood trail he leaves.

Alas, he does not get far within the Court’s walls. His stride heaves, leaning forth before he halts. Champagne eyes flickering upon the battle-scarred maiden—snow-touched like the land she claims. Purpose and strength in her gait despite how tiny the woman is. The Wayfarer narrows his gaze.

Yet he makes no move to lunge, his posture remains neutral—defensive if anything.

its ok <3 tiny post for now /sobs

Gilded gaze narrowing, now;
the stricken regards this bloodied strider with some manner of airy apprasial; a muted urge driven by that which the druids of her birthshaven had so implored into her mind's workings; one that had a clinical, distant voice speculating o'er myriad lacerations, the heave of breath from lung within quivering ribs. All that seemed sufficent in saying, for now, was:

"Ze lioness took a nibble out of you, as well?"

Pungent, prominent; Andraste found no wish within her to enforce the law of her own land. Ridiculous, perhaps  —  but she did not much care. Not now, when it seems another has, for once, been through a harrowing event that is not so unlike her own.

Kindred spirits then, battling the same foe and ending up torn asunder by feline claws. The Wayfarer lifts an eyebrow, pondering how she guessed yet the marks are perhaps obvious and the snow wolf perspective. Observant. Those who hold a claim ought to be, right?

Yeah, he confirms, rolling his shoulders and flexing his forepaws. You the one who hurt it first? Impressive, in a way, since the feline refused to back down—much like how this one seems unwilling to break if the Wayfarer chooses to charge forth. It almost makes him eager to raise his fangs, but the injury halts him for now.

"Oh, well,"
sculptor's eye, unabashed; treading over the roil of tendons beneath marked ruff; the knotted rippling through shoulders. Gladiator, he; lips part by way of weak wonderment, regardless of the herbalists' clinical notations in the niches of her mind. A sigh; some absent show of humility  —  "I had help."  The contusions drawn throughout him; the rivulets;
"Would you like mine?"
does not know, yet, what this offering is to the beast within this scrapper; cannot bring herself to care; not as impling simper curls the corners of ruined mouth, ever-warring with the glim of greenseer's concern within woeful, wondering gaze.

Wrappin’ up per request!

Help?

Does he want it? He shifts, uncertain whether he wishes to accept such a thing from a stranger. It feels weak, makes him vulnerable in the moment, yet the Wayfarer knows that he isn’t a healer. There may not be an opportunity like this again.

So he accepts with a half-shrug, and follows the Court’s leader deeper into the Vale. The visit is short, enough that the Wayfarer feels pampered and refreshed, yet he refuses to stick around for too long. That itch in his feet to keep moving overwhelms.