Sawtooth Spire zweiter teil

mahler chuckled loudly, listening to her little curse ring playfully up into the nordic air of the feral place. this was the beauty of sawtooth, sawtooth and her sharpened foothills which had lived beneath the promise of certain death, if wylla was to be believed.
mahler did not wonder why thoughts of her hardened sunflower gaze chased one another along his arteries now; he remembered how the color of herself had once rested upon him with love, and with favour. both of which he had not deserved; oh, mahler, du alter dummkopf! profoundly arrogant and ignorant, for he had lost her, had lost —
"deathbed?" he managed to churn out with a loud scoff of falsened indignation, lavender gaze filling with an awareness that had not been present seconds prior. phaedra, casting snow toward him, and his ponderous build too heavy to shift with a larger quickness.
into his eyes! the coldness tumbled along the broadsward of his muzzle and as mahler shook himself free he laughed, a sound wishing greatly to be devoid of inward restraint. "der alte hund hat viele tricks!" while his own massive paw swept a sidelong tsunami of white toward his treacherous spawn.