Lion Head Mesa i ne’er was struck before that hour

backdated to the evening of 8/23/18

blackfeather had fallen farther.
it was as if the curse of vaati's misfortune, the death of cicero — it was as if such things had cursed the wood. and she had woken only in time to see the pack fall. if kove brought with him new blood, relmyna did not know it. the red forest enconsced her until that evening; she left behind her sleeping daughters, nosing them over once before departing at sundown.
the edge of the dark wood stretched to the beginning of the mesa; still it was some time before the scarred woman arrived. once upon a time she had almost surmounted this with a redhawk; that time was long over. gingerly she climbed, unused to the treacherous slope, but once her footing had been found, relmyna let out her breath.
all angles, all features, all hope gathered and then dashed. a low croon in her throat, and then a crying out for those who had left, and those she had loved: cicero, damien, maegi, euron, ramsay. her howl went on, not the voice of a melonii, but one who had walked among them, one who adored the children, one who could not bear to see blackfeather truly fall.