Bearclaw Valley some kind of majesty, some chemical load

still the spirits did not talk.

astara had tried -- how she had tried -- to commune with them in the manner she had seen her dam once do. every day she set upon the pale mantle, grasped the pelvic bone between her claws, and closed her eyes in the hopes the eye within her mind would open.

and every day, that eye remained firmly shut.

how did he do it? how did it come so easily to him, those whispering spirts? astara's melonii indigo eyes flared open in frustration -- and with a growl, she flung the bone clattering down the stony steps.