Blackfeather Woods i am a part of you, little mortal

She came without Mou for the time being, if only to scope out the place. He, Peregrine and the girls were getting settled—and she would never feel settled on that mountain. To be living among the Redhawks—!

That set her blood, cold for so long, hot. The Redhawks, who'd driven her from this place and killed members of her family. The Redhawks, who'd accosted her behind the border, torn her ear, driven her away. And that bitch didn't remember any of it.

Maegi's teeth were clenched hard as she slipped into the forest, the tension rising even further as she continued on, the shadows engulfing her. The all-too-familiar shrieking of the daedra; that would never change. Her ears were flattened, paws stumbling over trails grown over with disuse.

A group of pale brown mushrooms grew ahead, surrounded by vivid green moss. She sniffed at them, gave them a lick, and then—oh, why not.

She began to chew at the cap, finding the taste unpleasant but not altogether unbearable. She only had a nibble, but that was enough. Better to test it first, should it be lethal. And even if it was. . .

They'd be fine. Mou would be fine. They'd go on without her.

Who'd miss a miserable cripple?

---

Surprisingly, the daedric whispers were easing as she carried on, fading into almost nothing. She made a beeline for Spiderlings' Glen, and was surprised to find it largely unchanged. Still covered with rubble and detritus after the earthquakes. Still sheltered among the dark trees.

Still, the maw of her mother's den—

Māzigon isse, Maegi, said that yawning void, and to her utter shock, the mouth of the small hollow seemed to be. . .moving.

Everything was—the trees seemed to close in around her, swaying ever so slowly, like lovers engaged in dance. The leaves were—Jaes, had they ever been such a gorgeous dark green before? Her eyes flickered upward, around, before she was interrupted once more: Maegi.

Who are you? she asked, and the ground shifted under her feet. Oh no oh no oh no

A giggle. You know, the den replied. A male voice, high, tenor, but with a growl to it that sent every word spinning like knives into her mind.

Māzigon, he purred.

She went.