Bonesplinter Ravine who thought she was a nightingale

so it has..., scarab murmurs in placid agreement, unknowing that the first time death caressed someone whom was tethered to his life was the death of the man whom sired him. his gaze leaves her to flicker lazily 'round the valley of death they stand amidst. grass and muck and the errant bloom of a wildflower whose seed was dropped by a bird overhead. each word scourges his throat raw, as if words were sandpaper against the butterfly wing delicate vocal chords. there is nothing wrong with them; nothing but his own selectiveness.

his own clemency for daring to devour the divine.

would she consider herself fortunate, scarab cannot help but superciliously wonder, if she knew she was the first to hear him speak in ...months? years? he can no longer remember.

age was ...nothing. life was better counted by achievements than years lived.

death must touch us so we can know life. it is a take and a give. the wilting of life so that the seeds of the hereafter can take root and bloom into blossoms.

oracular words spoken by someone who has only ever preferred the company of the dead and the dark; the twisted by the terms of their society. a sweep of his paw is given, dispelling muck and splintered bones; theatrical.