He knew the change in scenery should have eased his burden. It did not; Yagbur did his best to remain an empty reed. The forest sang, and he was apart of the song. It blew through him, it blew around him. Constant noise sounded, no thought no form. The song should breathe as the rustling of trees. Exhalations, be the thrumming of the earth. His overtones should be the dripping of dew and falling leaves.  

It should all be such, his weary mind refrained.  His dirge had continued for 6 rotations. Yagbur was worn down.  His mind began to drift, until, it was there again.  That shift.

Hunger, 

Consume,

Spawn. 

He had been at constant odds since the seed of the north had awakened. The singer at first tried to lull it.  It would not be coaxed.  At first, it could be lulled back into sleep.  The seed's resilience or reluctance had grown.  Now his will grew as soft as him.

They all still lived; there was this as a blessing.  This seed, this blessing would restore him.  Yagbur would soothe himself.  These soothings were no balm.  How was it that he must struggle against such a blessing. 

In his weakest moments, there would be visions of the singer holding the seed as it flared bright flashed.  The images mixed with the Dreamer’s promises and vexed him forward. Were they visions or were they ethereal dreams. Still, his work would be completed.

Murkie now had no fur, skin covered in complex scabbing burns. The muttering was a distraction to Yagbur’s labors. The spontaneous burns should have been a mystery. They weren’t. Ilsebek didn't even try to understand or explain where they came from, nor did Sanshall. Even now Murkie steamed as he kept his ears covered. 

It was that reverence again. Yagbur hated it.

"Great specter, 

Spare me.

I see destruction

It walks behind us.

We become it.

Lead us through death."

Despite Murkie’s stench and chattering babble, the party was now in the forest. No longer was there a burden on their provisions. Despite Yagbur’s perceived numbness, there was a relief now that there was no fear of starvation.

It was disturbing to watch Murkie fill out his original purpose. Even with his burns, he was still agile. It was disturbing to watch as the mutilated kesit lurk on all fours. The singer’s song was distracted at the animistic crawling, climbing and general slinking through the underbrush. 

All kesit, true Kin were predators, but Murkie had become something more, and something less. His mind was wrong. Revulsion twisted in the Yagbur’s stomach as he watched the hunter return with provisions for the rest. feathers stuck to his cracked lip as spackled bright blood coated his bare hide. 

The singer’s ears heard Sanshall speak of the absence of predators, there had been none. Even to his song, they lay outside of Yagbur's senses. Each presence avoided them.  Ilsebek’s input was that Murkie’s bizarre burnt odor drove them away. Sanshall, blamed Yagbur, as he was prone to. 

Yagbur slapped himself to invigorate him.  That blessing in his pack was stirring, always stirring now.  Perhaps, a lie would be his greatest song. 

* * *

Rancid burning meat wafted to his nose. The fool had fallen into a vent and kept going. The shaman was not sure whether to be disgusted by his stupidity or impressed at his tenacity. He had seen it happen before up just outside of the Blacklands. A boy had kept edging closer to the vent to stay warm. He fell in but caught the ledge. His mother pulled him out and even kept him alive for a few days, until decency demanded she end his screaming.

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Eyes searched for what they were looking for but keen ears found the source first. A songless tune, low-pressure building around the area, fur tamped down by the pressure. Malformed perhaps, but The First had chosen the boy for a reason. Black feathers adorned him covering most of his body and all but his eyes and face. Unusual and not something he'd tried before, but not without practical use.

Valcha looked for the burden. He didn't see it among any of them. So he felt. He was not as proficient as the other 4 Shaman, even with the boy he was unsure. The feeling of turning off an aspect of one's self was strange to him. That aspect was what his mind used to keep what he knew to be himself and everything else around him separate.

It was different for each of those gifted. For Valcha it allowed him to know where all living things around him were. He became them and understood them at a fundamental level. Rings of teeth closed and sank into his mind. Claws burrowed with the myriad of feelings.

Consume

Consume

Consume

That was all there was to that thing in the pack. Those three things and nothing more.

* * *

Most thought his gift had to do with the earth and always knowing where he was. It wasn't anything like that. Sanshall felt, more than anything how things should happen. It was a sound but it had a taste. It was a feeling he needed to be and go. Sometimes he'd be able to figure out why. Other times, as in when Yagbur asked him to feel for the emptiness he knew what he meant, but it wasn't what Yagbur meant. Then he felt that place as a convergence where everything would happen from.

He never felt like explained. It wasn't needed. Sanshall would sometimes lie when there were more possibilities in that way.

Sanshall didn't trust this to protect him from anything that could go wrong. Murkie always killed what he hunted. Sanshall knew if the deranged kesit wanted to hunt him, he would die. Ilsebek had no strong gifts but was an excellent skinner. Islebek also knew what he could eat and live, or other useful properties.

Right now his gift told him to keep everyone there at camp. There were more possibilities. An excuse was easy enough. They needed more rest, they needed provisions. How that accounted for whatever terrifying struggle Yagbur dealt with was unclear.

Again he tried to figure out his interactions with the boy. Still, bland, nothing. No possibilities for him if he interfered with that singer. He knew that the twisted runt had some gift or was it gifts, but wasn't sure what they were. He heard, tasted, that feeling of where to be, and not where not to be. It was up to his own judgment not to be stupid and weak.

* * *

Starvation and dormancy.

Sleep.

Don't hunger.

There is no food.

Sleep.

Starvation and dormancy

These tactile sensations and noises were not their own.

Suffocation and defense It felt back to the presence not of their own

There is no food and no reason to be awake. Sleep. Conveyed the light. Hunger simmered in them.

Legs bodies and mouths curled and stretched the casing of their protective shell.

Eat until there is no more

Reproduce and go dormant

Light will carry us to light

The sensations projected, wriggled along the conglomeration. It was time to be spawned. The light had led them to a food source.

We have consumed it all.

We have reproduced.

There is nothing left to eat.

We must wait.

It was an external feeling. An attack. A threat.

Feign defeat.

Encapsulate, spawn, hide with the light.

Consume the source.

Acquiescence projected among itself. Legs, fangs, and blind feelers withdrew probing. The feelings repressed.

The stalking subsides.

The suffocation subsides.

We hide.

Slick bodies forced fluids out, dehydrating. Temperature reduced. Oil drained.

Defeat Empty

Threat is light

Consume and hatch

Feigned Dormancy