Blackfeather Woods drunk and driven by a devil's hunger.

bones. 

they remain here, trapped beneath the rotting tree. weeds grow where once a heart beat, moss where once an ebony pelt lay. she can see now the sharp angle of the spine, snapped and splintered ribs. the skull is absent, save half a jawbone, dragged some distance away. in the canopy, something stirs. 

here rot the bones of the woman scattered with constellations, anchored here to the earth. the warlord is settled alongside them, muzzle a few inches from the jawbone. comfort and disgust, in equal measure, before she turns away. she'd dared not return here her whole childhood. she'd not seen her mother dead, only dying, and to return would cement her absence from here. 

it was senseless. crushed beneath a tree; what a stupid way to die. she's known her mother for only a few months, and yet she was certain this was not the death that was supposed to await her. it was uncomfortable, dwelling on it, remembering the way flesh and pelt and life had once rounded out the hollow ribcage, how these bones had given her life. and so here she remains.