Blackfeather Woods they call me

A smile pulled at the corners of his lips and he nodded. He considered her response to be an agreement, however little eagerness there was behind it. He could understand the hesitance behind becoming a priestess or priest, especially since so many of the woods seemed to favour the more hands-on approach; there was never any shortage of warriors and spies, many that joined them, and even those born into the pack, having an interest in both lifestyles. It was important to have them, he’d never suggestive otherwise, but those like Potema and himself were equally as important. If they were to lose touch with Mephala and Sithis, then where would that leave them? They would not be the same pack and the Brotherhood branch within their ranks would cease to exist.

Where she’d learned it was questioned, and he decided that it wasn’t important where she’d heard it, so much as that she knew it—a piece of it, that is. Again, he nodded as he listened to her speak, remaining silent even after her voice had faded. “It is not about Mephala,” was the first thing to leave his mouth when he did speak. “Rather, it’s a call to her.” Whilst a message and a call to someone were similar things, they were not the same, and this he had to clarify. “It’s for her, not about,” the northerner added as he sat down, settling in for the lesson. He wasn’t sure why the girl wanted to know it, not exactly, though he did suspect a reason; if the woman who birthed her would not be on her side, then what other option did she have than to seek out the Night Mother herself.

“You know only half of it,” Kove pointed out then. “I’ll share the entirety of it with you—listen closely.” He fixed his gaze on her, the smile having since faded as it was replaced by neutrality; tight-lipped and eyes lacking a lively glint, serious but bland. Speaking slowly, he shared the prayer with her, starting from the beginning:

“Oh, Mephala.

Mighty weaver of our destiny, receive our prayer.

Have mercy on us, speak to us in our dreams—

Because we are your unworthy servants.”

Letting the silence linger after his words, he watched the girl, hoping that she would remember—remember and repeat it so that she might gain the audience she desired. “There are many prayers for you to learn,” he said after awhile, ending the length of silence that surrounded them. “And, after you’ve learned all of them and gained experience, perhaps you will even create your own to pass down to the generation that follows you.” Should that be her wish, that is.