Blackfeather Woods her face it bloomed like a sweet flower [m]

this does not feel, to him, like a place of words except that of prayers he does not know. the irony of this is not lost upon him. he had once so vocally scorned the very gods whose altar he stands near. if they are real, however, he is not cast out of their sacrosanct lands. he is not set ablaze for his word crimes so long ago, nor is he infected with plague as he might've assumed to have happened. his roaming gaze, curious and cautious all at once falls back to the ebony and ivory woman whom moves a fragment of bone towards him and wordlessly gestures to the altar she stands before. his gaze flickers from her, to the bone she offers him, and then to the altar. she offers him no instructions and his first few steps into the temple's clearing are tentative, but he draws closer to the bone and when it is within his reach he plucks it from the earth, cradling it gingerly between his jaws. he looks to her once more before he pads closer to the altar and places it in the pool of crimson blood created by her sacrifice. wintersbane isn't sure if it's 'right' but it's what first came to him to do with the bone she offered him. he takes a step back then and his gaze moves towards and settles upon her once more.