Blackfeather Woods the return.

He had heard of the quest, of course, though was not as invested in it as Nemesis or Damien. Althaia's story was one laced with tragedy — a lone pregnant female who had been drawn into the Woods by her connection to Nemesis, because she had nowhere else to go. A price had been paid for the Woods' hospitality, but it wasn't enough. It was never enough for Damien, it seemed.

Cicero slunk from the shadows to take his place by his brother's side. He drew his nose along Damien's neck in loving gesture before standing and staring at the head brought by their recruit, the one he had met earlier. It was a grim sight and it was somewhat troubling she did not seem to realise the gravity of what she had done. Even if a task needed doing, it was never a bad idea to know that taking a life was a heavy thing, and not often one without consequences; be it from within or outside of your own mind and being. Harming another ultimately harmed yourself, too, and it was not always through revenge.

Thoughtful yet stoic gaze remained upon the recruit and the head which she had recovered and he nodded, though it was hard to tell whether he shared his brother's appreciation or simply acknowledged the fact she had succeeded in her mission. He wondered aloud; "How many lives did Emélie pry from their husks before coming to the Woods?" A morbid question, perhaps, and one somewhat out of place considering these very Woods had asked her to deliver them the head; but nevertheless, one that seemed important for the long run. There was no judgement in his voice, void of emotion. Althaia had wronged them and paid the price, even if he considered it a steep one, and he felt no sorrow for her death even if he could appreciate the ironic tragedy of her story and her being. Sometimes, that was just what life was like. Rarely fair, often tragic, and at times, one simply picked the wrong friends.