Bearclaw Valley Like the generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men.

His terrestrial adventures aside, Karst was slow to react to Merrick's voice as it rose to greet his mangled ears yet again. The name he barely recognized until the man was partway through his statement, at which point the boy sniffled and seemed to wake up to the goings-on within the hollow.

No, it did not offend him that he was once promised to the other children as a plaything. He had come to terms with his role, then. It was not a life he chose for himself and he did loathe it, finding comfort in the company of his brother; but now that Astyanax was gone things were changing.

Serve the red one, Merrick commanded with his low, prideful voice. He wondered if it was Sithis that was the red one, or if they meant the red-furred child, and either way they were the same to Karst; destructive, hateful, bloody.

The cyclopean stare burned Karst. He felt it upon his skin like an hour-glass, himself an ant ready to cook. He nods and solemnly tucks himself in to a ball to further warm himself. For now he needed rest and warmth, but as he recouperated he would breathe the herbal air and dream of greener days.