Blackfeather Woods crude and proud creatures

In his jaws did her pale bones rattle. 

For many long nights she had called out to him in fevered dreams - though they were not longing cries. They were howls of pain -- a somber wail of anguished sorrow that told the tale of a life cut short. It was an imperfect croon that drew him in, an otherworldly song only sirens sung. He knew even then that she had passed on. He could not shake her, nor the unwelcome feeling of dread that consumed him (it was actually guilt, not that he could ever recognize that). What lingered of her presence was something that both embraced and cursed every step he dared to take. Such was the way their complicated relationship solidified, perfectly tumultuous in life and in death. 

Vaati did not realise that to experience great loss came at such an emotional cost until the deliverance of her bones, after many moons of searching and idle waiting. It illicited a reaction from him unlike anything the brute had expressed before, the closest thing to remorse he would ever produce. A hollow stab to the soul, pouring out what little humanity Cassiopeia had filled within him. Perhaps it was only in that moment could he recognize his faults; how he had locked her away and shackled her spirit for so long. The brutality of it all was undeserving, and never would he have the chance to grovel at her feet and beg for forgiveness as he should have all those years before. But would he have? His actions, he ultimately could not bring himself to regret, but the victim... he had robbed himself of her. Perhaps if he had been more kind, they could have had more time. Perhaps not. 

Nevertheless, Cassiopeia deserved to rest among those who came before her, among warriors and priestesses. Among women just as strong as her on the grounds that forged her fire. He owed it to her. 

However, upon nearing the territory, Vaati is halted by the distinct scent of another groups claim within his ancestral home -- a strange and rancid taste intruding his senses. It caused him a great deal of confusion, enough for him to pause entirely a few yards away from the unfamiliar borders. Scylla had not informed him of this unwelcome development upon retrieving her mother's bones, but yet the interaction had been wordless and swift. Had Maegi willingly relinquished their families' claim to the dark woods? Or had she, too, perished? Though he had once garnered a distain for Blackfeather itself, the idea that an outsider had marked its vile piss over land that was Vaati's by blood did not sit right with the warlord. 

He inspects the scents for any sign of his brethren, entertaining the idea of simply entering even if none of his blood still resided in within the hallowed grounds. There was very little sense of critical thought to persuade him otherwise, for any potential consequences were ultimately, inconsequential to him. It was the same catastrophic ego that started wars, the overwhelming side of the scar-ridden man that would bend to nobody's will but his own. That part of Vaati had not changed and never would.