Sunset Valley seltsam

he thought of the children that had been born to his kill-brother, how he had silently admired stigmata's virile claim to the sunspire. it had been a mistake, however, to lie to himself and to all else so that he might achieve the same. for the ironwolf had left too great a harsh stamp upon the heart of diaspora with his passing.
melancholy rising to swaddle his stare as he shifted it to a pale outline broken by the gentle snowfall.
familiarity blooming; mahler did not trust it, could not trust it, not when his heart had been so laid beneath a carved stone altar to wither slowly into ash.