Blackfeather Woods don't ask the gods to help

it is morning, but to astara, it was simply another rise in the sun's uncaring revolution - one more day more distant from the last time she had seen her mother.

would ever see her mother.

blackfeather held many ghosts close to its heart and in the gurgling depths of its blackness there were thousands of ghouls that writhed, and yet it seemed relmyna spirit was not among them -- or if it was, the girl lacked the faculties in which to see her. instead, she simply stared out at the world in the lackluster, staring way a starving child might look out on its bleak prospects, and simply accept its lot in life was to suffer: and in some ways, astara was not so far removed from that senseless, hungry child as she sat there at the borders, grim as cerberus in his interminable guard.

a figure had passed by her and it was not until its shadow was well past that her gaze lifted, watching in that listless way that had become her manner. the form was one she recognized and yet, no joy sparked behind her gaze as she rose to follow him, her aubergine eyes flat and dull as she inspected him -- he smelled of a recent meal and was in good weight, and in her heart a coldness settled.