Blackfeather Woods her face it bloomed like a sweet flower [m]

wintersbane had been a godless beast. if the gangster and nightingale queen had worshipped any they had never spoken of them to him. and during his first time within these ranks as a wild, lost boy plucked straight from the tales of neverland itself he had scoffed at the idea of gods, had called hiding behind them cowardly. but he was a growing boy who had so much to prove. he wanted to be the biggest, the baddest and rejected anything that would truly help him to belong ...though nyx had kept much from him, and neo too, he assumed. they were not true heirs of blackfeather and he believed that he hadn't belonged and never would. perhaps it was true, perhaps even now as an adult with more knowledge and experience behind him he would never truly belong. yet, his mother's death had elevated her to something of a deity figure to him. the tundrian doesn't worship her, per say, but he seeks to carry on the legacy she left in her wake, to honor her by his future children and ensure they knew and revered that they were descendants of the nightingale queen.

she mouths to him in regards to what he would ask of the mother ( at least he's fairly sure it's what she wordlessly communicated with him; he's getting a bit better at lip reading he thinks ). he draws a blank. what is he meant to ask a goddess? is there a right or wrong desire? was it right to ask anything when he hinders on that precarious knife's edge of believing and skepticism ( although he leans more towards believing )? he gives a silent shake of his head once to communicate to his companion that he has nothing he'd like to ask of her. not today, anyway. today, he is content to be a witness to what has turned out to be quite extraordinary. it'll leave him with a lot of things to consider and that is gift enough wintersbane feels.