Deepwood Weald a shadowy hand turns the page

Was it mother nature that was moving and thinking? He had never wondered such a thing; a shrug was the quickest way to answer that, though a thoughtful pause proceeded it. He did not know for certain, even if it may have been best to say so. The world, including mother nature, did as it pleased and he knew that they were subjected to their whims all the same. Little toys on the play field of greater things they could not see or sense, unless of course they chose to believe. Dirge was not among those who did believe, at least not entirely. Even when he had seen things he could not entirely explain.

“How notable we are depends on who you talk to,” he rejoined as their conversation went along. “We do have the distinguishing feature of being one of the larger, longer lived packs in this region however. No one goes hungry, nor want for anything. We protect our own, occasionally aid our neighbors too.” And despite that he knew there were those that would always seek to harm them, regardless of their status or their lineage. He could have divulged such information to her, but did not quite see the point in such.

“And you can call me Dirge,” he offered then with a charming smile. Such a terrible name for a knave, especially those of the crown-wearing sort. Yet unlike his sister, he had never adopted another moniker, and by now there was no point. He was his mother’s dirge, in a sense, the only boy from a star crossed lover she had never seen again.