Blackbeak Bluff apricot

She followed the ravens at first. It was another game. The instinct of the wolf to run alongside the birds was there, but Wilwarin was no hunter, she did not know where the urge came from; only that the birds were beautiful when the sun touched their feathers and made the black bloom with oil-slick blues and greens.

When one landed in the snow she thought the game had changed, and with silent laughter pantomimed from her gaping smile, she raced to meet the bird and initiate a game of tag, or to see what had drawn it down from the sky.

The game ended abruptly after that.

The man had half a face. The blood was thick; she had smelled it way back at the start of her run and thought nothing of it. The ravens scavenged, that was all.

It was a shock to see one of her own kind being plucked at.

Wilwarin felt bile rise in her throat and she expelled it hot against the earth, and even then she knew she had a decision to make - and threw her head up instinctively to call for Easy!

Forgetting her silence. Cursing it, as the emptiness of the action descended across her. She was afraid for the man; what good could she do to help him? There was still breath in his body and she could see him move with it. The raven croaked a sound at her.

And with a surprising rage she flew at the bird, snapping and vengeful, to chase it off, and immediately after as her face softened she tried to clean away the blood upon that ruined face. What did she know? Kukutux had taught the children of Lotë something.

As she dredged this from her memory she frantically began to work what poor magic she could summon, and all the while was full of a poignant self-loathing that had been unlocked by this moment.