Bonesplinter Ravine who thought she was a nightingale

she trails off in her rumination, that her mothers are buried in the mountains, that if she goes ... and scarab is left using his imagination to figure out what she'd meant to say. he can't and doesn't linger upon it too much. go if you feel you must, if you feel it will assuage your turmoil. scarab encourages, only to level his gaze with lingering warning waiting in the wings. the dead, however, will not speak. her forgiveness must be her own, as he has mentioned before.

who are you?

a wiseman?

he almost laughs at that, feels the breath grating against the barest reaches of his throat, never to bubble to the surface.

i am ...the deathreaver. the desertwitch... accolades, the both of them. i am scarab.