Blackfeather Woods drunk and driven by a devil's hunger.

it is your birthright. 

it is a graveyard, a place of bones and forgotten atrocities. the earth is cracked and torn asunder, as if the weight of the history here had been too much for it to bear. her birthplace, a deathplace. she will always be connected to this place, and yet, she has no desire to claim it. 

muzzle swings around at the sound of pawsteps; a voice. the once-warlord rises, facing the silver-mantled woman. they are older, now, and as such, it takes her a moment before her name forms on her lips. "praimfaya." those kohl-lined eyes are memorable, and leathered nostrils flair as they confirm her scent. 

there is question in her greeting, and her gaze moves once to the bones. "my mother." molten eyes linger a moment on the curve of the ribcage, moving back to the commander. as far as she knows the girl ought not to have ties to this place. "what are you looking for in this place?" it is one more often avoided than not; despite its scars, the seething dark is very much still intact; a living thing attached forever to the wood.