Blackfeather Woods don't ask the gods to help

tagging for reference!

wintersbane sets his sights to the kintla flatlands after letting @Derg and @Faeryn know that he was venturing out. he was vague about where he was going and why only letting them know that there was something he needed to do and that he needed to do it alone and that he would return in a few day's time.

he doesn't forget his dark priestess lover, nor her shadowed and phantom daughters. they often haunt his waking thoughts and at times his dreams. he has not been near the dark woods since his departure from their ranks and there is a part of him that refuses to sever the connection to them entirely — it is the real reason he still wears the crimson paw print upon sinewed shoulder.

the sun has just begun its rise in the horizon, warming the snowfrosted world with its generous golden rays but the day is still chilled; chillier than they previous days have been, at least. wintersbane barely notices; his fur is coarse and thick and built for the harshest months of the season. wintersbane's steps slow as he nears the dark woods, noting that the pack scent itself has faded away, washed away by the lack of care to the decaying borders and yet the scents of astara and averna appear remain ...but absent relmyna's.

there is a painful beating of his heart in his chest, as if a heart's reached into his chest and grasped his heart in a tight and iron knuckled fist. he suspects what it means but there is a part of him that denies it even so; because he doesn't really want to believe his suspicions to be true. he trudges into the semi-abandoned dark woods but doesn't go very far, feeling a weighty sorrow upon his shoulders and wonders if the heaviness in his heart and upon his shoulders is how atlas feels holding up the world.

it is morning, but to astara, it was simply another rise in the sun's uncaring revolution - one more day more distant from the last time she had seen her mother.

would ever see her mother.

blackfeather held many ghosts close to its heart and in the gurgling depths of its blackness there were thousands of ghouls that writhed, and yet it seemed relmyna spirit was not among them -- or if it was, the girl lacked the faculties in which to see her. instead, she simply stared out at the world in the lackluster, staring way a starving child might look out on its bleak prospects, and simply accept its lot in life was to suffer: and in some ways, astara was not so far removed from that senseless, hungry child as she sat there at the borders, grim as cerberus in his interminable guard.

a figure had passed by her and it was not until its shadow was well past that her gaze lifted, watching in that listless way that had become her manner. the form was one she recognized and yet, no joy sparked behind her gaze as she rose to follow him, her aubergine eyes flat and dull as she inspected him -- he smelled of a recent meal and was in good weight, and in her heart a coldness settled.

i was hoping you'd join! ♥

it doesn't take wintersbane long to figure out that he's being followed. her footfalls are quiet, near silent, but he senses her presence with a quiver down his spine and turns his head to look over his shoulder. of course it is his varjostin — his shadowstalker. the tundrian's steps have slowed to a stop and he turns to face her, relieved and happy to see her. it shows in the softening of his eyes, in the tremor of his ears as they flutter back to rest at half mast atop his skull as he regards her. varjostin, he croons his greeting to her.

but there is a chill to this reunion that is inevitable, unavoidable and his joy at seeing astara is sucked from him as quickly as it came. he does not scent relmyna upon her pelage and the fist around his heart tightens. an uneven breath is taken, but it is a struggle. there is a slump to his shoulders and a deep bow of his head of remorse, of sorrow. the lack of her mother's scent upon her pelage is all the confirmation he needs. i'm sorry. he offers the shadowstalker though he doubts his grief is of any consolation to her. averna and astara are orphans of both relmyna and blackfeather woods and he can only imagine how that must settle and weigh.

will you take me to her? he asks in hushed tone, needing to see his once lover's grave. to make peace with her passing, as he'd done with his mother.

always <3

there is softness to the man as he turns to greet her, and it is cruelly not reciprocated. he was grieving. astara felt little pity, for relmyna had been her own mother, and a jealous possessiveness flared in her heart to see her own grief challenged by another. the blackened dove's gaze lingered along wintersbane's swarthy features as he spoke, and then she turned and set off in a separate direction.

she was walking towards the altar, and while she did his bidding, astara did not do it out of the kindness of her heart. relmyna - if any part of her indeed still lingered on the mortal plane - would have liked to see the darkly-masked face of her tundrian again, and astara, wishing for any memento in which to convene with her dead mother, stopped short of the altar and looked to wintersbane pointedly.

the altar was swept bare of snow, and it sat like a crude structure against the pale white backdrop, its coarse face sunken by shadow. atop the granite was a single white shape -- upon examination, one would see it was the cleaned and masticated pelvic bone of a wolf.

she said nothing, lingering the way a displaced ghoul might, though she studied the man for his reaction.

wintersbane follows astara dutifully, not attempting to breach the silence with one sided conversation. she is hurting and she is cold ...and he feels partially at fault for it; and wants her to know that he didn't abandon her, that he didn't give up on her. perhaps he did, in a way, but not for his lack of trying. he knew he could never sever relmyna from blackfeather woods and her daughters would faithfully stay by her side until the end. ...after the end. it'd taken wintersbane some time to realize that spending his life tending to lotte's grave and keeping anyone out of the strath, chasing off anyone who sought to settle where his mother had died and his family had cracked like a fissure was no actual life at all. lotte was gone from this world and there was no sense in pledging loyalty to a corpse.

he nears the grave as astara brings him to it with a slight bow of his head. some part of him knew relmyna was not going to be around forever, though he hadn't been aware — nor had he cared — how big their age gap had been. he'd loved her anyway.

for a long time, wintersbane is quiet before he turns his head to regard astara once more. her indifference to him hurts him worse, he thinks, that relmyna's death. i'm sorry that she died and i'm sorry that blackfeather woods have disbanded. and he is, but he had seen the latter coming a mile away. the downfall of the dark woods had been his final push towards striking out on his own. i know it might seem like it but i didn't abandon you astara. i haven't given up on you or your sister, he tells her. i won't, not ever. i'm not going to try to convince you but i do want you to know that you and averna always have a home with me. you are always welcome to join me and the vartija. you don't have to and i understand if you don't want to, if you never will. but i will never turn you or averna away.

the stone of his heart still feels heavy in his chest and his glacial gaze studies her for a few moments longer before he turns his head back to relmyna's grave.

for a while, there is silence -- and astara was fine with that, for she was accustomed to quiet. wintersbane seemed to be weighted heavily by conflict, and if she wondered at all about his internal thoughts, she needn't wonder for long, for he eventually put forth a contrite speech, noble with apology.

his empathy, and his contrition, and careful words -- all were wasted on the child, who simply regarded him with that same cool indifference as before.

she said nothing, same as she always had, same as she always would. instead, she simply looked upon him in the detached way an executioner might look upon its thousandth charge, knowing soon that it would all be over. wintersbane was free to go, to leave -- and as he walked back to the place where her mother rested, astara wondered if it would horrify him to learn that relmyna's body had been devoured by her daughters, and the rest cached to innumerable stores across blackfeather.

astara doesn't speak — this is a silence he'd grown accustomed to during his months spent with the dark woods; thus he does not expect her to. wintersbane looks to her and feels guilt twist in his stomach. he knows he is not to blame for relmyna's death. he is not the reaper that had ferried her soul from her corporeal form but the detached look that her shadowstalker daughter gives him makes him feel as if he is, somehow, at fault. maybe she doesn't blame him and maybe she does. there is a distance between them now that as he tries to bridge he knows will never ebb.

the tundrian lifts his chin and regards her for a moment longer. she shows no interest in his offer but he is glad he has placed it on the table regardless. ultimately, it is up to the daughters of relmyna to decide what is done with it but he has a sneaking suspicion that it will lay there, ignored and disregarded.

thank you for bringing me to her. his gratitude is sincere even weighed by the heaviness that he knows he won't be revisiting it. like with lotte's grave he is ready to move on. may the night mother watch over you and your sister, astara. wintersbane murmurs to her before he turns and begins to walk back the way they'd came. he doesn't need a guide to show himself out of the dark woods.

it pained the girl to remain so cold in the face of her past packmate, but she kept her composure. she remained riven to the spot, even as wintersbane spoke her name -- her heart sank, but her eyes were full of ice.

it was not his fault, it was not his fault...  he didn't deserve her contempt, but it didn't matter. her mother was dead.

she was not coming back.

the girl swallowed stiffly, rooted to the spot long after wintersbane had made his leave.