Redhawk Caldera night and the spirit of life

It had been a long, terrible and sleepless night. The first of many without his father. Whip was handling the loss as well as he could. This time, his grief did not compel him to harm himself, nor did it give him the inclination to lash out at those around him. He just felt heavy. Like a stone, he could not move from his spot near, but out of sight, from the mound of loosely packed dirt that covered Peregrine's grave. Mostly, Whip spent his time in silence. Though when he was finally alone, Whip would talk to his father despite knowing that he would not hear him on the other side.

He stayed close to his father's grave well into the morning. The tell tale rumbles of hunger waged war in Whip's stomach, so he rose slowly on to wobbly limbs. He needed to pass by the actual grave to get to the cache, but Whip could hardly bear to see it with his own eyes. With a deep breath to prepare himself, Whip began making his way the cache in a slow, somber funeral march.

On his way he saw a stranger. Whip stopped to rub the crust from his eyes and soon that they weren't playing tricks on him. She looked so much like Peregrine. Had he returned by sheer force of will? But, she just wasn't him. Whip found this frustrating. "Who're you," he asked hoarsely after a beat.