Blackfeather Woods the brewing storm

It was not with deaf ears that her chants went unheard, her voice clear and ringing throughout the woods. The northerner heard her, was drawn to her, following the lure that was her prayer without resistance. And when his eyes landed on her he became a ghost, moving with practised silence as he fell into step alongside her. He kept his steps measured, pace controlled to neither take him beyond her nor fall behind; he was the phantom of the woods, watchful and patient, allowing her voice to fade out before he filled the air with his own.

“When we met, you called out to Mephala, but now your prayers favour Sithis,” he noted, keeping his gaze on the path before them. “What happened, nukadlik?” It was not uncommon to send prayers out to both, as the Night Mother and Dead Father existed together; for the belief in one to die out, the other would shortly follow. Still, he was concerned—concerned about the upcoming bloodshed and how many lives might be lost, concerned for the outcome of the war, but mostly he was concerned for the children. They could not fight, not yet, but they also could not be sent away somewhere. They were trapped in a war that they had no business being apart of, and for that, he worried.