Redtail Rise Requiem

Two days later, Masquerade still couldn’t comprehend the enormity of this loss. They had dealt with Avicus’s absence before, but not like this. There was no coming back from this. The Wealda was dead and… where did that leave the rest of them?

They knew they should talk about appointing someone in Avicus’s stead. There was no point in holding it open for a dead woman, after all, and the rise would need to move forward. Avicus would want that. But she wasn’t here to consult. Masque was still too busy grappling with that to consider pragmatics.

They crawled out from beneath their favorite pine tree and walked sullenly toward the crest of the rise. Ready or not, they needed to face facts. And the pack needed to rally together, hold onto one another, to make it through this dark age.

It wasn’t the first time they’d lamented over their dead mother. And it wouldn’t be the last. Masquerade’s deep, familiar voice rose into the frosty December air. The dirge poured out of them in a stream of vapor that caught the weak winter sunlight, giving shape and form to the yearling’s grief for an instant before it dissipated into the ether alongside Avicus.