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.

the woods emits a darkness; seething and palpable as if it were a living, breathing entity. perhaps it was. perhaps it seeped from the ravens that roost in the spindly branches stretching above her; watching the wanheda's progression thru their domain. regardless of the ghosts and demons that dwell here, praimfaya does not feel fear. only a slight agitation at the knowledge that their beady starless nightsky eyes followed her. she pauses, scarred eye and muzzle lifting to the defiant sunlight that struggled and weakly filtered through the knotted branches above with a curl of her lips.

it does not perturb the birds who ca-caw down at her.

waiting.

a snort passes thru black leathery nostrils before she pushes forth. part of her thinks that she will not find thade here — a bigger part of praimfaya hopes to all the spirits of the commanders that she doesn't find thade here among the scavengers that would pick his bones clean.

she doesn't scent thade, but the forest has a stench all it's own, working to mask the scent of the living that have drifted through it's claim as if they were nothing more than phantoms. thus, praimfaya is physically taken aback, recoiling back, as she comes across a familiar figure laying next the skeletal remains of a corpse long since picked clean.

hela? what draws the warlord of the nightwalkers to this place? laying among the dead? there was a wave of battling disappointment and relief that it wasn't thade ( for she cannot help but fear she'd find him a corpse in this place ); though neither manage to win the war for the most dominate emotion she feels. instead, she grasps hold of the hope — however slim — that maybe hela's seen him.

it is your birthright. 

it is a graveyard, a place of bones and forgotten atrocities. the earth is cracked and torn asunder, as if the weight of the history here had been too much for it to bear. her birthplace, a deathplace. she will always be connected to this place, and yet, she has no desire to claim it. 

muzzle swings around at the sound of pawsteps; a voice. the once-warlord rises, facing the silver-mantled woman. they are older, now, and as such, it takes her a moment before her name forms on her lips. "praimfaya." those kohl-lined eyes are memorable, and leathered nostrils flair as they confirm her scent. 

there is question in her greeting, and her gaze moves once to the bones. "my mother." molten eyes linger a moment on the curve of the ribcage, moving back to the commander. as far as she knows the girl ought not to have ties to this place. "what are you looking for in this place?" it is one more often avoided than not; despite its scars, the seething dark is very much still intact; a living thing attached forever to the wood.

she is recognized and finding no threat, praimfaya releases the tension that instinctually makes its way to the set of her shoulders. though their times met were brief and never long enough to solidify much of anything about the other, praimfaya doesn't feel she's in danger. frostbound gaze follows hela's gesture to the skeletal remains of what was once, as hela introduces, her mother. a slight shiver slithers down her spine, easily maskable. it reminds her too much of blodreina and ingram. this, too, was all that was left of her parents.

i'm sorry. is all the scarred wanheda can offer the other woman; too easily able to sympathize though she wishes she couldn't. out of anything she could easily draw that thread of connection to she wishes it wasn't this.

i'm looking for my leaders' son. he's ...off whiteish with his bottom half looking like he was trekking thru mud and muddy markings on his face. praimfaya pulls from basic flash of memory alone ...without having spent any sort of real time with the child before his disappearance from the sawtooth spire she fails to be able to describe his facial markings in any kind of full detail.

the woman's apology is met with a flick of her ears. she has come to terms with it, and the words, she feels, are only a formality. she does not know how closely the woman before her has lived the same tragedy. 

and then her true intent here is made clear. the woman considers a moment, and offers a shake of her muzzle. "I've seen no children here, nor in the past fortnight." a raven calls overhead, before noisily bursting into flight above the canopy. her gaze remains on the commander, adding after a beat, "if he were smart, he'd avoid this place." 

relief takes centerstage in praimfaya's play of emotions to hear that hela saw no young cub recently. this was a terrible place to get lost, especially because praimfaya got the suspicion that the ravens were just waiting to swoop down upon fresh meat. well, he's young. praimfaya offers with a slight rise and fall of her shoulders in thade's defense ...though it was weak. she doesn't know much about the child to be able to say for certain or not whether he fit her or hela's description of 'smart'. he's been gone for quite a while. praimfaya does not think he will be found, that mahler has sent her a wild goose chase ...and yet, she obliges the gargoyle all the same. i feel like i'm chasing a myth rather than a boy. she admits quietly.

freeing the thought that buzzed 'round in her mouth like a swarm of bees fighting to get free.

again, she tries to put herself in mahler's place. she tries to envision how far she would go if it were her child and comes up, once more, empty jawed.

blodreina had sacrificed her life, endured great pain the short time she lived after being crushed, for praimfaya. though the wanheda wants to claim she would do the same for her kids ...she can't. she isn't sure she would — easier to think in the here and now when she remained yet unable to have cubs.

you don't smell of nightwalkers. praimfaya murmurs, figuring it didn't hurt to shift the conversation now that she was confident she would not find thade in the dark woods.

she does not think young children could survive long outside the borders of their pack. having seen the litters born within the haunted wood, she knew firsthand their fragility. and yet, she had been markedly young when she'd fled the wood, and here she stood. her ears flicked, wondering if the myth she chased lived and breathed somewhere, out there, or had been reduced to little more than the unyielding markers of once life as lay at her feet. 

the commander issues an observation hela accepts with a dip of her muzzle. "mine became a position no longer worth defending," she admits, "I left the nightwalkers a few weeks back." or had it been months? without the constraints and responsibilities of a pack, times seems to run differently. 

muzzle motions toward the silverlit woman. "I don't recognize the scent you carry." it seemed the commander's allegiances were no longer the same, either, the woman's auds swept forward in query.

with the discussion of thade — whom remains still missing and who's exact path of travel remains elusive to the wanheda — tucked away, praimfaya is happy to turn to something else even if her question to hela and her lack of nightwalker scent might bring up unpleasant memories. it is only in the aftermath of the words lingering between them that this occurs to praimfaya, but as her frostbound gaze studies the other girl, she doesn't initially detect any anger. only a truth solidified by her words.

why not change things if they were not how you thought they should be? praimfaya could not help but wonder aloud.

i never planned to stay with moonspear. the death of someone very close to me accelerated my leaving. praimfaya answers simply with a slight shrug of her shoulders. the dead were gone and the living were hungry but that didn't mean praimfaya didn't feel dacio's death keenly. i'm currently with sagtannet ...on the spire, she gestures in it's direction with her muzzle though the thick, dark forest conceals it — as it conceals everything — from view.

at least until the time is right to work on building my own geda again.

the warlord considers a moment, tongue passing over her fangs. "one can not incite loyalty from a group like the nightwalkers, and already they had their doubts in me; I became warlord before my ninth month." a beat, and then, "I owe no loyalty to those not loyal to me." she does wonders briefly if this answer is sufficient to the girl; once the decision had been made to leave, her reasoning had become clear, ironclad. 

she accepts the reasons the commander lays clear, though interest has her gaze slid in the direction she motions. "sagtannet?" she drawls,  intrigued. she's not heard of it before, and wonders how long the group praimfaya has offered her loyalties to has staked claim upon the spire. 

her intentions beyond that intrigue further. "akin to the one where we first met?" lips curl, almost in the shape of a grin before it fades. she'd been driven purely by ire and wildness then. vengeance had had his faults, many and more of them, but even she could see the benefit he and black hat had offered in in their training of her.

hela's words make sense and their plight is shared; it is a struggle the young wanheda knows well. though she had the loyalty of those already in her ranks many refused her recruitment attempts because of her youth, not understanding the ways of her people. crogeda accepted her without hesitation after she won her conclave as did the geda's that her aunt thryi spoke to afterwords. they fell in line beneath her reign without protest. fair enough. praimfaya draws with a soft nod of understanding.

they are the result of a merger between two packs, one of which was my birthpack. and in some way, praimfaya cannot help but feel like she owes them something. mahler could've so easily turned a pregnant blodreina away ...and then what would've befallen her? would praimfaya have lived to even be as old as she was now?

yes. praimfaya responds to hela's inquiry. i will do things different this time. place an emphasis on trades and less on my own bias. a fairness then that was hard to contest ...but right now it was all theory, an idea. for now, i am content with sagtannet.