Wapun Meadow the needy eat man-mades, they wear phony clothes

astara followed the scent like a bloodhound, hungry -- thirsty -- desperate. it was her. it was averna. sister. blackfeather. the other half of her disfigured and lonely soul.

the blackbird's strides drew longer, an excitement rising in her blood as at last, scent was cojoined with sight. there before her, as ethereal as a shimmering ghost, was the blood astara had believed she had lost long ago.

thief. astara's expression broke into a guilty, happy grin. she sprung upon averna with a fury of wagging tails and kisses, brushing her head affectionately along the ghost's cheeks, ruff, flank. where have you been?