Ouroboros Spine ommatik ∻

What remained of the snow crunched, slushed beneath their pawpads as she followed alongside the young widow -- who Aiwë could not think of as elder or wizened just yet though she held the survivor in great esteem -- settling into the silence comfortably. Birds of a feather, like the brown and white of the ptarmigan. "It has," the birdcaller agreed, perhaps needlessly, lilt as soft as the still-chilled breezes soughing in the pines. It was almost startling how easily she had found her place on the ring of mountains, how readily she settled amongst their numbers. As if she had truly never been Aiwëndil at all, she blinks the thought away as if the patchwork of snow and mud and grass before her can wipe away the memories within. 

"I'm glad. To be here, I mean," she murmurs, peridot jewels sweeping towards the matchmaker for a moment. Her lips curl in a small smile of extended warmth, the flicker reaching to the cool green gems.