Luneshale Pass Black moon

All the skies were her’s, and yet, she’d stayed close. And the prince had begun to think of her as his; the omen. A huntress keen of sight, but also of mourning. The death of one thing, but in its place, could be the birth of another.

That night as he fed under moonlight he waved away his servants and laid out a goat hock a fair distance away on a bed of silver shale; a silent invitation for his owl, @Sahara, to dine with him.