Blackfeather Woods Someday your bird is going to fly.

He'd become withdrawn since their arrival at the forest's edge. Not that it mattered any to begin with, since he was naturally so quiet. For a few hours the pair had split up and now it was Titmouse that investigated the forgotten woodland; it wasn't long since his departure from the ranks of Blackfeather, and yet so much had changed. It was empty now. Only the ravens lived here now, and the twin ghosts seeking refuge.

The boy found a familiar path after some investigating. It was beginning to grow-over, be retaken by the indomitable will of the forest. Without the constant patrols, the bodies to push through and the paws to break down the soil, it was becoming something else. Tit plunged in to the darkness of the path without a second thought and within a few moments his stride caught on something sharp - a sapling maybe, or an eager bramble trying to root itself.

He stumbled but emerged further along the route with a line of blood staining the silver fur of his wrist. He flexed, tested his weight on the offended limb, and found it to be superficial. As he watched the blood pooling across the welt though, he wondered, 'was that what you needed, all this time? Some sort of blood-tax?'

Overhead was the whistling sound of a raven's wings as it sought out a branch.