Blackfeather Woods my life and all seemed turned to clay

astara seemed as if she would hesitate, averna did not. nightcub, daycub, each with their own purpose, and now their blood mingled with that of their mother to drip in dark rivulets down into the eyesockets of the grinning wolfskull. 
cicero.
relmyna fixed within her mind the last memory she had of the patchwork poisoner alive, and was chagrined to find that his face had begun to grow hazy 'round the edges. the telltale throb of a migraine began to beat in the back of her skull, but the woman was determined to push beyond it, to gain the sentience of her former lover's spirit and bring it to the fore.
mother
let him come let him come let him be present
an eldritch chill, not from winter's breath, began to steal through the cave, and she paused only briefly to consider what it could be before refocusing her efforts upon conjuring the dead man's spirit.
attend your daughters, cicero — they have need of you