Blackfeather Woods she is the fairies' midwife, and she comes

backdated to the 17th

The draw of the forest is unmistakable; it reminds her so much of home that she must at least give it a look. She parts from the vivacious girl with some sorrow, though she knows it is more likely than not that their paths will cross again. Women like them never stop moving. That is why she must continue.

The dark woman sniffs around the edges of the woods, the old bones and smell of dead things a comfort in her nostrils. All at once, Mephala rises up around her, and she is wrapped in the familiar presence of the daedra. She peers into the trees, hope, for once, blooming up within her chest. She has never allowed herself to dream, but something about this place. . .

There is no way her sister is alive. Too many years have passed, and Meldresi was seasons older than she. But Miraak. . .and his children. And their children. Meldresi's children.

Pah. It is foolish to dream. She shakes her head, stepping away from the borders. Nay, likely just some macabre pack bent on conquest, and keeping outsiders away. The matron begins to pad off, heading north once more, her steps heavy but determined.

it is on wintersbane's patrol that he scents it: another beast close to their borders. this has become more and more frequent though the scent never crosses deeper into their territory — and for that he is grateful. he is tired of and highly impatient with trespassers and non-trespassers that steal and eat their border decorations like men deranged and starving. ( how was that male making out, he idly wonders? had that rotting corpse been poisoned? ) perhaps each was a test of mephala and sithis ...and each incident was how had they fared in the eyes of the daedra? by their dwindling numbers perhaps not as well as wintersbane would've liked.

the dark brother is no leader but still, he concerns himself over their shrinking numbers all the same. it is concerning and to sit back, idle, and assume the daedra were going to do all the work for them was lazy. wintersbane'd never been a lazy nor idle beast. already, he plans to venture out on a recruitment drive. very few of his previous attempts have actually presented results but at least it is effort.

the dark pelaged woman is walking away when he comes across her — she had not called for any of them and her presence on the borders is curious. it causes the wispier fur of his nape to prickle and his chest to puff proudly beneath the silver-blue mane. who was she? what had she been doing? the dark brother calls after her with a carrying and deep chuff ...though if she is determined to be on her way and does not stop to indulge his curiosity he will not chase after her.

The chuff has her spinning round, curious; the sight of the man before her, even more so. One look at him dispels the notion that he is family, with his silver mane and icy eyes. Still, though, he is intriguing, and she pads toward him, tail swinging behind her, a glint in her indigo gaze as she sizes him up. He is larger than her by far, but she is not afraid. She has never been afraid of brutes like this.

Greetings, sir, Megara croons, a small smile blooming over her slender muzzle. I am new to the area and curious about all the different places I am seeing. Tell me, what do you call this place? she asks, looking up at the dark canopy. It is fearsome, no doubt. Fit for great warriors, and things of mystery.

Had she been younger, she might seduce him. As it is, the youngster--big as he was--likely sees her as a grandmother figure, well past her prime. Ah. At least she lived that kind of life when she was able.

for a long moment wintersbane does not expect her to turn around, but she does spinning 'round on her heel to face him. her fur is ebony and her eyes the same color as astara's. this takes him by slight surprise and the dark brother studies her blatant observation. would he not have known that the listener gave birth to astara he might've thought this woman was her mother. he doesn't know enough about the family that once reigned over these woods — aside from that he holds clear affection for astara, he hates vaati and is on the fence in regards to how he felt about maegi and the sad broken boy that brought destruction with him where ever he went ( 'tis wintersbane's general opinion of titmouse ) he does not know defining physical traits.

this place is called blackfeather woods. he responds to her question nonchalantly, all the while searching her expression for any potential recognition. it's not as if they don't have a reputation and it's not as if their reputation does not proceed them; though she has made a claim to be new to the area. wintersbane puffs his chest, wispy tendrils of his silvery-blue mane tickling the underside of his muzzle. it is indeed. he asserts simply.

There is something about the way he looks at her that intrigues Megara--like he knows her. This is reason enough to continue the conversation, even if the place didn't have such a delightfully dark name. Blackfeather Woods, she repeats, nodding slowly, as if to herself. I will remember it. Not easy to forget such woods as these.

She turns her attention to him, now--the brawny boy with the silver mane. She lets her indigo gaze linger over each and every curve of his body, as though making love to him with her eyes. Honestly, she is simply curious, and her curiosity often manifests itself in seduction. It has gotten her into trouble more than a few times. . .but isn't that all part of the fun?

Your name? Megara inquires, her voice clinical. If he is smart as he is strong, he will give her a false one.

she repeats the name but he notes that it doesn't bring with it noticeable recognition within her. he's left to assume that she's either new to these wilds or has been fortunate enough to live in a pack that the whispers of their pack have not touched. the latter seems unlikely but he supposes it can happen, especially if the packs and wolves are newer to the wilds. no, it's not. the dark whispers of the woods will call to those who of a similar cut of the wolves that dwell within it, and ward off those whom aren't.

there is a whisper in his skull; less of a word and more of a feeling. faint and as quick as it appears it slips from him like smoke between fingers. wintersbane doesn't trust anyone he doesn't know — but the whisper fills him with suspicion. perhaps it's unwarranted but he listens to it. there is a familiarity to her dark coat and violet eyes that, again, draws to his mind his earmucher ...but nothing else was remotely familiar about this woman. bjørn. He offers simply. Not quite a lie ...but not the full truth either. it's been some time since he's felt the impulse to offer a name other than wintersbane and he'll take that urge to compartmentalize later.

Bjørn, she whispers, staring at him with a small smile on her face. She holds his gaze, blinking slowly, as if trying to draw him into some sort of hypnosis. That's not the case at all, really, just as her earlier pseudo-seduction. She is simply an intense woman--always has been. She is not shy of that fact. It is better to use it to her advantage, no?

I am Meldresi, Megara fibs, like she had with Cyclone. She watches his expression, searching for the slightest glimmer of recognition. Should she not find it, she will make her farewells and leave. For however interesting this Blackfeather Woods is, it does not hold the secrets of her family. To stay would be a waste of time.

But Meldresi is an interesting enough name, near-impossible to forget. If it sparks something within him, she will see it, and she will press him further.

her gaze — so much like astara's that it was beginning to make him feel uncomfortable — holds his own. the tundrian's chin lifts on instinct, ears tapering back with a soft flutter to rest at half mast as his mind works and works until the name she gives him causes a halt all. meldresi. of course he knows the name. you don't become a dark brother, or a member of the dark woods period and not know who meldresi was. no. you're not. he tells her point blank, the hackles rising at the nape of his neck.

was she running around the wilds slandering their founder's name? wintersbane might not know meldresi ( was too young to, frankly ) but she is important to these woods and that idea does not settle well with him. his posture shifts then, from curious and weary to hostile, muscles pulling taunt and twitching with anticipation. the dark brother's lips curl back to reveal his teeth with expectations of answers to questions he has yet to ask; he bids his time waiting for her to come clean and explain before he has to demand it out of her.

He could be bluffing. But he's not.

As soon as the answer comes, Megara fixes her stare on his face, drifting slowly to his exposed fangs before meeting the icy gaze again. What do you know of my sister? she asks, her voice like a drill cloaked in velvet. Soft, but insistent. Melonii? Mephala? Are these names familiar to you?

There is an underlying excitement to her tone that she cannot quite suppress. After all this time, it still excites her to find others familiar with her way of life, even by assimilation or conquest. The world is a lot smaller than she thought it to be, as a child. It is a fact that never ceases to delight her.

the woman calls meldresi her sister and he has no reason not to believe her ...despite that she's tried to lie to him moments ago. whether she is actually her sister or not doesn't really matter to the tundrian. she knows who she is, regardless. i know that she's buried in these sacred grounds. but personally? nah, he never knew her. melonii were the founders of this place, of course i know mephala, he wants to scoff at her. he's not crazy about the interrogation — surely it should be reversed. she's the loner at the borders of the pack he belongs to remanding answers.

i know mephala. goddess of secrets, lies, sex, so on and so forth. she's also known as the night mother. sometimes, every now and then, he hears her whispers. most of the time they are incoherent language older than the sky and the bone but there are rare occasions where he understands ( or perhaps she speaks so he can understand ). who are you? he demands and then clarifies with a swipe of his salmon pink tongue. who are you really?

His first statement shakes her more than she will ever admit. Meldresi, buried here. She resists the urge to leap into the forest, to look for her wayward sister. The sister on whom so many legends are built. It is a Melonii stronghold, it is! And they have brought Mephala here, too. . .

Her lips spread in an incredulous smile, and she blinks once or twice before responding. I am Megara Melonii, she says, and that is the truth. I have not seen my sister in a very long time. What of Miraak, my brother? Did he come here, too?

Her jet-hued tail swings behind her, belying her enthusiasm. Do any Melonii still remain here?

the woman introduces herself as megara melonii and this time, he believes her. there is a grim twitch of the tundrian's lips as she admits that she hasn't seen her sister in a very long time. i don't doubt it. but it seems insensitive to give voice to that particularly satirical thought — laced so thoroughly as it is with his own bitterness towards his remaining teekon roaming sister ( or is it ex sister? ) — thus he opts to keep his mouth firmly closed. no doubt she doesn't want his assholeish opinion. i...don't know anyone by the name of miraak. if wintersbane's heard the name he doesn't remember... but he knows that he does not live in these woods. it's kind of hard to not know everyone when the pack is as small as it is.

her next question still isn't overly easy to answer; but her likeness to astara is uncanny. in fact, it kind of spooks him. he feels like he's almost looking at a ( much ) older version of her; which means that the ebon fur and violet eyes must be a family trait. i'm not sure, he begins, hesitant. but i do believe that there are two melonii's. two girls. i've never asked their mother who their father was — it's not any of my business, and it didn't matter to him who sired them. besides, he doesn't make it a habit to think of relmyna with her previous lovers. — but given that one of them looks a hellvu a lot like you i'm willing to wager they've definitely got melonii blood. wintersbane tells her with a lofty shrug of his shoulder. he's vague, doesn't mention the girls's names or gives title to relmyna ...still trying to protect them just in case this woman turns out to be untrustworthy.

melonii or not she's already lied to him once and he suspects she only tells the truth now because he caught her in it.

Damn. Well, just because he doesn't know doesn't mean that Miraak hadn't come here. She will continue to ask around, and see if her brother still lives. The prospect of young Melonii is more captivating to her at the moment, anyway.

Two girls, Megara murmurs, staring dreamily into the trees. How lovely. It does my heart good to know that Meldresi's legacy lives on. She looks at the guardian again, giving him a dip of her head. And thank you for your service to my family and to Mephala. The Brotherhood suits you, she adds, gaze drifting over the pawprint on his shoulder, brighter and fresher than her own.

She licks her chops in contemplation. May I be allowed to visit my sister's grave, sometime? she asks. Not today, but when I have had time to prepare? I would only like to say a prayer, and bring her some plants I know she loved.

wintersbane accepts the compliment and her words of gratitude with a dip of his head in lieu of words. the tundrian's ears cup forth at her inquiry as he considers her request. as long as you had an escort i don't see why not. it wasn't really his call to make but as the guardian that came to intercept her ...wintersbane figured that he was alright to offer her that conditionally. melonii or not he wasn't going to just let her wander into their territory as she pleased. call for me when you're ready and i will take you to her grave to leave her plants and pray. who is he to deny her that right? how many times had he visited lotte's grave after he found it? not half as often as he should because it was far away and mallaidh's accusations ripped apart any peace he might have otherwise felt there. still, would a pack ever claim the strath he'd have liked someone to allow him to pay homage to his mother's grave.

He is gracious enough to allow her this courtesy. No one escapes death; even before their own, they must face it. Without knowing his particular struggles, Megara understands that he most likely has lost as well, and understands. She dips her head in solemn thanks, a genuine smile upon her face. 

Then I will leave you and yours be, for now, the woman murmurs, peering gently into the dark woods. Her indigo eyes then rest on the guardian. Farewell for now, Bjørn. Mephala be with you. 

If he has no more for her, the Melonii will turn, with one last intrigued glance at the trees before departing. It will not be the last time she sees this place, if it is up to her. But it's not—not entirely. Still, she looks forward to visiting her sister's final resting place. 

Perhaps. . .perhaps some shred of her spirit still remains, not yet claimed by the Void.

in a few weeks time his promise won't matter — he'll part from the dark woods to forge his own path and not too soon after that the woods will fall. but presently, neither of the two know that. and you. he replies to her parting words with a dip of his head. wintersbane watches her disappear and when she is entirely gone from sight he goes about the rest of his patrols thinking that it's high time he took a trip west to visit lotte's grave again. there was no telling how many visits he might have left before someone tries to claim the strath.