It was hard, he found, as the world remained unchanged and yet his foundation had been shaken. He was not different, at least not in a way that others noticed, but he was not the same, either. He was changed or perhaps still changing and it was almost like he had been forced back into a cage. Except this one he had not made, not alone. He needed to make a choice, but where in the past it had been around trust and belief . . . This was far greater. Did he repair the foundation that he had built a life upon, forever deciding that any future cracks had purpose? Or did he rip the loose dirt free and build anew, choosing that what once was true was not irrevocably broken into falsehood?

He breathed out, looking at the still lake. He needed someone to talk to, who could help him recover or maybe turn his back. There were other ways than to trust someone fully or believe they told only lies. He would know; the best lies had some truth in them so that they were more easily swallowed. But then that led to the why of it all? Why would they lie? Were they hiding something? Had they lost who they once were? They were giving him a headache, that was sure.

"Come on, then, let's catch a few fish for lunch," he called to his mini bear companions before walking to the warm water. He sunk within its embrace effortlessly, a halo of hair fanning out upon the lake's surface, before he disappeared beneath. Fishing was a simple thing, something that didn't need to be thought about. It was based on a feeling, when to strike and when to feint and when to be still. He opened his eyes and waited for the right moment to come.

Internally, a black cloud darkened Shank's thoughts and mood. Uncomfortable thoughts churned at the edge of reason, beckoning her to delve deeper to glean some insight on why she felt the way she did. She felt stuck. As if she had gotten wet but not dried properly. Some dampness lingered in a spot the sun or drying winds could not reach. It seeped through her hide and deep underneath her skin, something festered. Dark thoughts gathered, violently coiling initself and shooting out at the worst times. She was snapping at her birds and any kin that crossed her path. She was unsettled. She felt like she was going in the wrong direction and that something was not right. She had a brood, it was alright. She met an interesting kimeti. She was fine, delightful even. The joys of motherhood did not reach her. Sure, she was happy that all were healthy, sufficient, and bright, but she would not go through the experience again. It hurt and was a lot of effort with questionable pay off. She was not used to being so needed. And while her birds offered no solace of sounds, they were sufficient and could find their own food. She did not have to teach them anything, be patient, and in turn, learn about herself in the process. She could just be. And perhaps it was in these particularly quiet moments she felt the most restless. Was there more to life? Or was she just existing so that the sun would set and rise the next day? She would have brief moments of alleviated darkness when she came across a new bird species. But sooner and faster, the world weariness would return. And sometimes with a vengeance. She had a new cockatrice, a cocky little thing that would strut as often as it would exhibit signs of viciousness. It was causing a ruckus in her group. But she didn't mind the shakeup. It brought some entertainment. She started to wonder as she pawed at the dried blood on her forelegs. Would it be so bad to- she shook herself out of that particular reverie. Only bad things would come of those spiraling thoughts. Shank supposed she should wash herself.

Hearing nearby water splashes, she followed the sounds and slipped away from her birds to clean the mess of blood. Sitting in the pool of blood as it darkened the nearby waters and washed away from her, she hummed a little tune. She was by herself so naturally her thoughts ran inward again.

Teeth snapped together as the fish turned and darted past him. A stream of bubbles left his nostrils as he snorted in confusion. He'd been still and patient, but something had clearly unsettled the fish. All around him, the water sat empty.

He moved towards the surface. A swooshing thud greeted his ears. The smell of blood oozed through the lapping water. He knew before he broke the water's cap that there was someone else here now. The mini bears wouldn't have eaten their fish in the water itself, but something had died and now it's life was a current of red-brown that streamed through the lake.

Sylph sucked in a breath before turning to find the source of the disturbance. On the edge, he spotted a gray doe—she looked like a storm, one that nagged at a haze of memory or dream—and knew that she was where the blood had come from. A hunter, then. Grass and plants did not bleed blood. There was something about her expression, about the slump of her body as she let the water clean her without her own action, though. A pierce of thought that made him think of himself so long ago and yet just this morning . . .

With a cough and an exaggerated swish of his body to churn the waters, he announced his presence through sound first. It wasn't until he was closer, the water barely grazing his belly, that he spoke.

"Are you well? You look as though the world has changed," he greeted, voice soft. "I am Sylph, if you'd like to talk." And then he waited, because the choice was hers.

Sylph.
She chased the teasing memory, but it evaporated before she could make the connection.
An errant thought passed her mind as she looked down at the red ruined waters: perhaps the bloodlust of the battle never left her even after all that distance. And just like that, her clarity left that particular memory and vision.

She shook her head. What was she doing again? She was bathing to get clean. That's right. And a buck came up to introduce himself to her. She looked around. No wonder her birds did not give her a notice about an intruder. They were left behind and she was alone. She was uncomfortable with the knowledge she missed them a little bit.

"I think I miss my birds. I'm Shank. I have a lot of them." But she would see them soon as they could not bare to be gone from her for long. Soon enough they would go looking for her and just like that, a bit of sun burst through her dark thoughts. Her birds made her happy. They might be unruly and loud, but they were hers. She wondered if they missed her. She was not privy to the minds of birds, but in their own way, a bond was forged. They would be reunited soon.

"I'm sure they'll be here eventually. Do you like birds," she asked of the other Kimeti.

He did not have birds, though he supposed in a sense that mini bears weren't terribly far off. He glanced back, over his shoulders, but both must have been either still fishing or still eating their catches. It was probably a good thing they couldn't fly like actual birds, he mused with a smile. They would be terrors.

"I like birds, though I don't have any of my own. Just two rambunctious and always hungry mini bears," he admitted with a chuckle. "I have a lot of experience with missing others, though. A doe, a buck, a friend, a life that felt harder, a life that felt easier. I suppose we must all miss something at one time or another." In the life that felt easier, he'd have thought that it was just a trial to instill how dear companionship could be, perhaps, and that it wasn't meant to last. Not forever, at least. Now, the thought of it, the thought of them felt bitter on his tongue and he wasn't sure that they cared enough for that.

"You're right, though, your birds will come. You are theirs as much as they are yours, after all." And maybe that was the right of it, the truth. It was a bond that was only about them. Somehow it was less of an answer that he felt it should have been.

She tried to relate but she could not. She had birds not voracious mini bears. She wasn't sure if she even knew what they looked like. She had heard about them of course. Something about them liking to steal meals and honey. Or eating a lot of citrus. And she didn't really have friends though she thought fondly of the other doe often. And of course her brood were dear to her. They were off having their own adventures and she was certain they thought of her as often as she did of them. She had them in her heart and was at peace with the current development. She didn't really miss them. Maybe that was odd. She was just in a funk. She was lost but also not lost. She knew something was amiss but could not put her hoof on what it was.

She was brought back to attention to the buck in front of her. Seems like he was also in a mood. They weren't really talking with each other. Maybe offloading and talking at each other. She didn't have to be rude when they both clearly struggled to have a conversation. It's not like she asked a particularly thought provoking question of the buck. She could act like a regular kin.

"I suppose you're right" was her non answer. She kicked at the waters gently to dislodge the brown waters that clung to her form. "So what's your story?" Alright, she winced inwardly. Maybe that was too direct. It was too late to take it back. She felt something akin to instant regret, and her mood was black as ever.

"My story is . . .," he sighed, "a bit more complicated now. Or at least, that's the simple answer." He fixed his eyes on a spot behind the doe for a moment. He didn't know if any kin was quite ready for his life's tale. He hadn't even saddled Nightmare with the entirely of it. Born Again knew the most, if not all of it. He felt at once choked by it and, at the same time, dearly wanted to unburden himself. A selfish thought when he did not know if anyone would want to know, if anyone could understand. It was not his intention to slip the shackles only to lock them around another's throat.

"I thought I knew the world that I lived in, only to wake one day and find that the being we all look to for guidance might not be at all what we are taught," he admitted. "I'm still trying to reconcile it all, but faith is a foundation that not many want to be shaken. Mine has, though, and I cannot remake it."

He couldn't even try to remake it, even if somewhere a small desperate piece of him had wanted to. He was too shaken, too changed. He'd come out of paranoia and settled into confidence, peace with himself and the world. He'd thought they must have known, must have cared about them all. It might not have been a destiny, but it was a journey. And then, they had not seen him. Worse, they'd misunderstood. They'd been wrong.

The easy thing would have been to hate them. To think that trust was a bramble path that only drew blood. But he trusted that they meant well. That they believed what they were doing was right.

"The Motherfather," he started, then looked at the doe with pain and sadness, "has lost sight of their children. I fear that they are not without flaw."