Blackfeather Woods my life and all seemed turned to clay

astara remained immobile -- at least until averna stepped forward with an envious ease. the nightcub's gaze flickered -- was it jealously? contempt? -- as her sibling vied for the title of 'most obedient of relmyna's brood'.

in the way that averna straddled the realm between living and arcane, astara held far more fast to the physical realm -- her sister was the ghost, the wraith, the spirit -- and astara the physical embodiment of the daedric will that pulsed through their hounding blood. she may have heard the raspy whisperings same as averna, but her will was her own -- she heeded only what benefited her.

in that moment her dam had sliced open her calloused paw; astara watched as virile crimson rose along the studded black of her dam's pawpad. she tensed, knowing what came next. the sight of blood stroke a sleeping quality in her to life; she felt her heart pump in rowdy motions, adrenaline seizing her in nervous intensity.

she was so reluctant to give her own paw for injury -- but the cold regard in her dam's eyes somehow suggested anything but compliance would be harshly met. resigned, the nightcub mimicked her mother's motion with a decisive nick of her teeth. placing her blooded paw on the skull, astara's thin frame buzzed with an unapproving, deep growl.