Bearclaw Valley some kind of mixture, some kind of gold

talk, damn you.

astara held the bone of her mother between her paws. its ivory arch looked so fragile -- so out of place -- yet, held between her black talons she could feel a sense of power coursing through it, not unlike the tattoo of blood under flesh.

if only she could figure out how to tap into it.

the blackbird placed the pelvis on the silverstone, closing her eyes. she thought of the rock of tongues her mother had held, how its surface flickered like the fires of an otherworld, just out of her reach. astara delved deeper into her memory's subconscious, wading through a rippling darkness that carried her like flotsam to some distant shore.

when astara woke, a thin layer of snow sheathed the world in immutable white. she blinked, struggling to hold onto a dream that was fading fast.