Blackfeather Woods what a bitter bowl of war he's drunk to dregs

 

she's pulled away from her mother and sister, who linger near the den entrance. occasionally, to the chagrin of her sibling, her mother will rise and steer her firmly back towards the den. in the sleepy heat of the afternoon, she is more or less complacent. she is named, now, Hela Astraea Melonii, though her surname is whispered to her only once and has already slipped from her recollection entirely, as most things do. 

she has in her jaws her latest prize, a previously sleek raven's feather now damp and stuck in grimy chunks. it's not as satisfying as a root or some left-over piece of prey, but it's enough for now and she's already fiercely possessive of the thing.