Blackfeather Woods gasping at glimpses of gentle true spirit

The sound of distant crying piqued his interest, and he followed the tin-sounding refrain until it was at its loudest, which did not take long. Sobek had never cried; he had been a sombre baby, growing in to a young boy that appeared to lack the capacity for it. That or he felt safe even in his failures, content to try again and again at things until they were right, but not wasting his energy with unnecessary shows of emotion. He was curious of this sound and that was the end of it. What caused the sad song to drift between the trees? It could have been a raven, he thought. They each held their own voice, their calls changing all the time.

But when he slipped around the corner of the altar to the sounds dying out, he saw his mother. Her crying had not ceased - merely been smothered with a tip of her chin. His ears trembled and showed his uncertainty in the way they twisted, quick, like the fluttering of moth wings. She was speaking, too. Nobody was here but him, so... Sobek presumed she spoke to him, and slunk close.

Rather than interrupt whatever she was doing, he leaned his narrow, runty figure against her hip and propped his chin against her knee. The boy was silent, absorbent, not moving a muscle even when he recognized some of the names she spoke. When she was finished, Sobek flicked his tongue - almost snake-like - and lightly nosed at her side to try and comfort her.