Silvertip Mountain the songs are all the same

it did not end, but rose foul and creeping like bile in the back of her throat, like scathing tendrils of panic in the hollow of her chest. teeth sank deeper into still-warm flesh, blood filling in the spaces between each needling ivory instrument and running in broken rivulets down night-kissed chin and throat. asperas closed their eyes, seeing that glowing streak in the sky again, the color of midnight wishes, the color of astara's eyes. then the glimmering nightscape of the skyrock, the star-dusted sky torn down and crushed into nightglass.
asperas knew, then, what had to come next.
she lifted the corpse, deaf to the bruin-witch's gleeful praise, and started toward the source of her suffering. the bear-god's cursed gift. the skyrock. her gait spoke of a sinister purpose, perhaps an invitation for her bloodcrazed father's presence — but whether he followed mattered little. what came next would not depend on his presence, nor the lack of it.
when she reached that hidden place, she would uncover the skyrock, and baptize it in the blood and terror of her first victim.