Blackfeather Woods devoted to destruction

Ragged ears folded back and forth as the stubby child looked from him to the pup that looked like him in many ways. Cicero wondered if his fur would end up the same as his, too, ragged and thin. Hopefully he would last the winter — although part of him thought it might be best for the pups and pack if they did not. Then perhaps some of what was broken could be glued.

A third child arrived, looking normal at first sight but with a strangely angled front leg on second sight. She too observed what her stubby brother had. The patchwork pup picked something up and pranced forward with child-like enthusiasm and innocence, yet unaware of the dangers of the world, assuming that Cicero meant well. He clambered atop his brother and showed the feather. The feather was plain black, nothing strange to see for most — at least not for Cicero — and there was a child-like wonder about the fact that the patchwork pup so proudly displayed it as if it were the biggest treasure in the world.

"Looks nice," he said, though unsure if the pups understood a word he said. "Pretty." It wasn't really. It reminded Cicero of the depths of his dark soul and the inescapability of it all. Perhaps some of that wasn't really just the feather. He waited to see if any of the pups'd try to mimic his word while he observed them, curious to find out if their problems were only physical or mental, too. So far it seemed only the former, which was good.