Blackfeather Woods stale incense

Open to anyone. Hoping to spree!

The days had passed rather quickly following his arrival. This was likely due to the amount he slept, causing hours upon hours to drift away from him, but he was very tired. During his momentary lapses of conciousness he would eat, piss, and return to his bed in quick succession. Adapting to this place wasn't on the agenda yet, not until Crescent's body had been reconstructed to some degree, and so this state of life, this drifting between here and there, and of dreaming and remembering his first home and his first real connection, persisted. Whether @Potema visited him or not, he would not recall later. He doubted her at first, and was skeptical of the food she would present to him, but the hunger would always win out. If it was poisoned or otherwise treated, he would not know.

And he did dream. He dreamt of his long-dead friend, picturing the details as best he could before the dreams would derail themselves. Crescent traced the contours of the man's dark face in his mind, tried to remember the precise tint of darkness that dominated his pelt, and the vibrant tones of his eyes, much like a lover might. He thought from time to time that he was back there — back home — and that he was visited by the red-eyed warrior who had always been so captivating; sometimes Crescent would smell the copper aroma of blood, or hear a strange high-pitched tone piercing his dream, but he was too contented by this newfound proximity to his dead friend that he did not care.

Except that eventually, the dreams began to distort beyond recognition. He was coiled in a tight bundle with all his parts tucked neatly in place, having hidden himself away in a basket of tree roots and shadow, when he realized he couldn't wake up. It felt as if he were becoming a piece of the forest — he thought he saw, he felt, he was, being ensnared by an eager branch of the Blackfeather; he felt, or thought he felt, the prick of a needle-jab, then another, and another, as the smallest saplings turned upon him and began to grow beneath his skin. Their roots were tangled in the soil, but their tiny branches were slick with the red of his blood, and they burrowed through his meager muscle tissue. The boy felt the many jabs and thought he'd made a noise — his body twitched, and twitched again, but he was paralyzed.

Crescent hadn't been very interested in his surroundings when he was last awake, and did not realize he had made his bed next to an active nest of fire ants. In defending their nest, they influenced his dreams, and made his hypnagogic state all the more terrifying.

He was made aware of a young boy in their midst, half dead, starving, who would be groomed to serve the Brotherhood. Whether or not he would join their number would be up for debate, but for now he was in their care. Miraak would make sure that the boy would not forget that.

He visited the child as soon as he had time, finding him curled in the roots of one of the dark trees that made Blackfeather Woods so distinct. The older male strode over curiously, his tongue clicking with disdain as he looked the boy over and finding small, wriggling things in his fur. Ants, most like. Miraak grasped the child's neck, pulling him away. He was barely a skeleton, hence why it was so easy for even an old man like Miraak to pull him.