Sawtooth Spire fernweh

❝as do i.❞ melkor murmurs in companionable agreement. even a skilled warrior who once lived for blood and gory can become bloodsick and battleweary ...this is where he is now. he looks to give what remains of courtfall's wolves the best life he can but knows that with their dwindling numbers — dwindling before andraste's death but made worse by it — that he — they — could not do it alone. idly, as they move, exploring and inspecting, melkor cannot help but ponder what andraste would think of this; two of her loves meeting on the jagged slopes of sawtooth to forge something more powerful than just courtfall or just diaspora.

❝the willows are nice enough but,❞ melkor draws in a breath and lets it out seconds before his nose drops to the snow to sniff at hoof prints in the snow. ❝it felt too open. too exposed.❞ perhaps a metaphor for how he feels at present; nevertheless, having gotten used to living in the protection of the sunspire's womb ( despite how much he now despises the vale ) he likes the feeling of rocky fortresses that being settled in the sunspire rather than on the cusp of it provides.