Silvertip Mountain put me in a cab to suburbia

a captive. in her stirred an excitement that had been shamefully quiet for a long time. so much energy, she marveled -- how full of life her great bruinwitch had become. she thought she would hold that glint of excitement in his singular eye in her mind forever; let her forget everything, but never that.

she reached for him then, partly in answer. a captive was a liability, not an asset -- it had to be fed, it had to be watched -- in astara was a brutal pragmatism that captives served only one purpose and it was to make an example of them. kill it, she thought -- kill it to please the bear.

maybe in killing, it might truly restore her -- and she might once again walk among her kin unburdened by sickness.