Blackfeather Woods In the middle with the beggars and rejects

He studied the woman for a moment, realising how different she looked from Tundra when they should look so similar. He didn't think her as wrong or different or imperfect. To him, she was normal. He'd grown up knowing her and she was respected. Always would be.

He grinned, happy she had the time for him.
"Death." Came his simple reply. "What do I do with the dead?"
The question he desperately wanted to know because of his birds. They deserved something other than rotting on the woodland floor, he felt. He treated them as friends and yet they could be commanded. He was already learning to use his own voice to influence them.