Blackfeather Woods don't ask the gods to help

always <3

there is softness to the man as he turns to greet her, and it is cruelly not reciprocated. he was grieving. astara felt little pity, for relmyna had been her own mother, and a jealous possessiveness flared in her heart to see her own grief challenged by another. the blackened dove's gaze lingered along wintersbane's swarthy features as he spoke, and then she turned and set off in a separate direction.

she was walking towards the altar, and while she did his bidding, astara did not do it out of the kindness of her heart. relmyna - if any part of her indeed still lingered on the mortal plane - would have liked to see the darkly-masked face of her tundrian again, and astara, wishing for any memento in which to convene with her dead mother, stopped short of the altar and looked to wintersbane pointedly.

the altar was swept bare of snow, and it sat like a crude structure against the pale white backdrop, its coarse face sunken by shadow. atop the granite was a single white shape -- upon examination, one would see it was the cleaned and masticated pelvic bone of a wolf.

she said nothing, lingering the way a displaced ghoul might, though she studied the man for his reaction.