Kildeer Rest bury the hatchet; bury a friend

she mentions that the wilds is better off for it and part of wintersbane can't help but agree. he'd spent so much of his cubhood resenting them but the shadow he'd joined more recently was just that: a shadow, a weak echo of the pack it'd once been. it was an echo of what it'd once been, on the cusp of a war that it couldn't win. disbanding it was a mercy. probably more to the wolves of the dark woods than it was the wolves of the wild. she must've not been around much if she didn't know that the dark woods hadn't been much of a threat to them anymore. retaliation had only been expected.

and now? she asks him. wintersbane looks at her contemplatively before he peers down at his own shoulder and then back to her. now, he draws the word on a breath, wondering how much he wants to delve into his personal reason for still wearing it. it serves my own purpose, marking me as a sotaherra as i attempt to recruit for my pack and as a physical memento to the dark priestess that i loved who passed away. it wasn't that he couldn't bring himself to say that she died but those words sounded so callous to him that he shies away from them.