Blackfeather Woods a light above descending, below a dark ascending

It had been so long.

She found herself windswept, snow dusted, exhausted. The woods still seemed the same. Tragedy tainted and dark despite the way the world had been painted white.

Always the Blackfeather Woods seemed keen to stay true to their name.

Yet she followed each old path, overgrown by now, as if they had always been a part of her. As if they were veins connecting to her heart. She wondered if she might...find something. Someone.

A reflection of herself, a ghost lost to history.

She missed them deeply as she poked along an old abandoned den. Wondering what it had seen in her absence.

the great white bird clasped her talons about the fat end of a barren branch. her landing shook the snow off it, and the tree next to it, and a waterfall of white raised a cloud of icedust.

it left twinkling sparks on the raven's plumage, as she watched the red wolf meander about the old densites.

Crows and ravens were the namesake of the woods.

But she nearly missed this one with its pale appearance.

A second too long to spot it. Sitting, watching. As if it held knowledge she did not. I don't remember you. Her voice warm as she gazed upon the bird.

a scavenger was a hunter only of rumors, chasing gossip to a well-rotted meal. it knew camaraderie with bears, and rats, and coyotes, and could speak with each in the language of hunger. so it was that there was not a bone, from the prairie to the park, that this bird did not know the place of.

and so it was that this bird had her own, secret delights, that the sight of this forlorn wolf reminded her of.

the raven croaked, and spread its wings anew. she batted them, rising off the branch and landing on a lesser one, of the neighboring tree. the bird bent her neck back, looking at the wolf. she made another, rumbling croak.

follow?

She was beckoned by the motions. Unable to say why.

It moved, branch to branch. Its pale coloration hid it well but a trained eye stayed fixed upon its movement. Some part of her could not help but be transfixed by the idea that the bird was a sign from her mother.

As if a piece of her was here, with her, in these cursed woods.

she moved, tree to tree, until finally, she flew.

but she knew the wolf need't a guide, to know where these old paths led.

snow had fallen. thick, heavy and long undisturbed, it rose to a small wolf's elbows. but the pale bird knew the spot.

she landed, not to far from where snowfall had snuffed out the dark entry into a denmouth. she folded her wings. looked at the wolf. pecked the snow.

dig.

Why...?

What was there?

All Sakhmet could think of was how much the woods had taken from her. Two brothers, a home, a family. Now the bird led her to a place she did not think she was brave enough to venture.

She thought about when the earth shook. When things fell and others were trapped or dead.

No. She told the bird sternly. No! No, go away! She ushered it off now with a loud voice and soft herding. Never once turning teeth to it.

and the bird knew she had planted a seed. like a mistletoe germinating, tendrils digging under bark to suck on the vitae of its host. a small bush at first, but it knew how to grow, yes.

the raven hopped backwise, away from the red muzzle, until her wings batted again, and she rose with a fine snowmist. large body aimed at the rare gap in canopy of blackfeather woods.

as she ascended, her croaks were sharp and quick, and too reminiscent of laughter.

last <3

It left her.

Mocking, haunting.

Tears sprung to her at once and without second thought she turned tail. Fled far and beyond these woods, back to the safety of the spine.