Andarin: The Mountains: Astarte; Blackbird fly

“This city is afraid of me. I have seen its true face.
The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over, all the vermin will drown.:
The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up about their waists and all the whores and politicians will look up and shout 'Save Us!'...:

...and I'll look down, and whisper, 'No'"

The man had run from his past for too long. No longer did he dismiss his only daughter. He knew that his wrongs could never be right. In that way he was like Astarte. But his reasons were completely different. Skylar looked too much like her mother, acted like her and was everything…her. It disturbed him more than it should have. And now….now he appreciated it. Now he saw what he could not before. Skylar was the only piece of Hawthorne that he had left. He feels her trying not to look into his mind, and it brings back a plethora of memories. Memories he didn’t want to see. Skylar’s face filled with so much pain, the face of death, Andraste’s hopeless tears, the anger of the Shard commanding him to return, to hurt all that he loved. All that had consumed him in that time. It made him….different. It was better that Astarte didn’t know, it would frighten her.

He only returned because he knew that he could control it. He knew that they were safe from Saphira‘s fire-slave. Nicodemus was stronger than he had ever thought he was.

Her thought comes hushed, as though everything in her was only a whisper. Nicodemus steps forwards, pressing his muzzle to her chest gently. I will always be here. He recoils subtly, his smile slow and faint. Astarte was family too, and I doubt that she understood how deeply he cared for her. His ear flicked backwards, Andraste’s call clear from where he stood. She was farther away than normal, and Nicodemus was curious about it. He felt the wolverine upon his back, a deep yawn taken as he stretched himself out.

He had never been good at conversation, and so it was that Astarte’s words were taken. He didn’t speak for a long time. Perhaps even hours. His eyes traced the starless night, lingering upon the crescent moon before he whispers. “Astarte?” Hope that she had not taken to sleep, and his voice was light. “Do you think….” He feels like a child asking it. “Do you think that I can…..fall in love again?”

SEER

**NICODEMUS**

Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long. No meaning save what we choose to impose. This rudderless world is not shaped by vague metaphysical forces. It is not God who kills the children. Not fate that butchers them or destiny that feeds them to the dogs. It's us. Only us.