Blackfeather Woods my life and all seemed turned to clay

astara, such a reactive child. relmyna gave a low croon, sighing as the shade of cicero left the three of them, and glanced ruefully between her daughters as the cold began to lift. your father, she explained, not expecting to be understood. she doubted either of them could grasp the concept of such. they were intelligent, yes, but theirs was a spiritual intuition, not one of mortal flesh. 
suddenly exhausted, energy leeched by the efforts here, relmyna lay down near the bones, placing her chin atop the bloodied skull and giving a single thump of her plume in invitation for astara and averna to join her, if they so wished.