Hushed Willows like one of those old greek tragedies

forward dated to sometime mid-next week, i guess. what are timelines? edited to reflect a personal request that i will make a read-only tomorrow.

andraste had died in his arms.

painful though it is, he knows he must brave face. must keep on going. he faces wolves beneath his rule, his care. he must make a decision. a heavy one.

he has planted his roots. they are as solid as a thousand year old tree's; imbedded deep and nurtured by responsibility. the womb of the sunspire reminds him too much of her; worsening the ache. he cannot stay there. courtfall, without her, is not courtfall. new life. new territory where she does not linger; haunting him.

he informs his wolves after her burial and sets out presumably with them in tow, finding the hushed willows upon chance. it seems a good place as any to rest and as he explores: large paws seeking loamy and fertile soil, snow banked as the rest of the wilds with whispering willows whose barren boughs swaying, bogged by layering snow. the scent of herds is strong and he thinks that this might be the place they will settle.

Not far, laid just out of reach, was the fawn. Her. Little Doe! Once conqueror of mountainside had drifted down the slopes in the shadow of Arórëlen. With the season (fever stil under her skin, uncured) and sudden tragedy, she did not stray. To be stronger than fae and fawn is what she wished.

He was a landmark among untouched blankets of icy cover. Although she — fleet footed, Little Doe! — is light, she did not tremble into nothing upon an approach. ' quite quaint! ' Warmth in tone with attempt to cast light upon their dreary days.

lave, one of the newest to join follows after him as he splits from the group after informing them that this is where they will rest and lay claim to, to begin the tedious process of mapping out unmade borders and marking them. at least this time, it is not wholly from scartch though few have been lost upon the way. he understands; losing andraste hurts none more than it hurts him. 

glacial gaze flickers to lave idly; glad for her company even if he does not immediately break the silence that settles over him. ❝it will serve us nicely,❞ melkor murmurs in agreement when he does ward away his self-made silence. if he's been here before in his travels ( surely he has! ) he can't rightly recall; hazy with grief that seizes him. mapping borders, however, listening to the sound of her footfalls echoing after his own is cathartic.

this, however, wasn't his first rodeo losing someone he loves. it is a tragedy that seems intent to plague him; like a loop that he cannot seem to shake. this morn, he thinks of relmyna too. ❝the return of the prey is well-timed and from the scents this territory appears to be self-suistaining which is ideal.❞ he gives pause then to mark a stretch of grass; a mixture of urine and scratch of his pawpads along the hard, still-frozen earth, digging past dirtied snow to reach it.