Silvertip Mountain the songs are all the same

a change in the unchild, since that night when the bear-god had struck the stars and they had cried their cursed tears onto the land. asperas had become reticent. contemplative. reclusive. they guarded their secret closely, squirreled away where none would think to search — and, in the quiet of night, the night-pearl sought to understand the bear-god's curse.
she rarely slept.
asperas remained watchful as her father led her through the whisperwood, gaze dull and mismatched where once it had been bright and sky-hued.
silence, hot on the heels of the bear-priest's question. asperas listened, parsing the threaded whisperscreams woven into the quiet, under the distant sweetness of birdsong. birds sing, a murmur. bear screams: blood.
she looked up at merrick. the bear tore the sky down. he gave me... brow furrowed. what did he give her? i don't know.