The wind hummed low as it writhed slowly across the oblong slab of granite which lurched precariously overtop Taenuarhew. The voice it made was answered faintly by the cacophony of phantom calls replying back from sundry granite monoliths as though their long-dead patrons still murmured over vengeance for the multitudinous grievances they still bore. Taenuarhew breathed deep and crinkled worried lines across his scar laden brow-ridge as the sounds chimed in tune with the the crackle of cattails and lap of water against an the jagged, aged stone which sheltered his minuscule nest. He licked at faint drops of snow tickling his nostrils. One of his wings hung limp against his body and he did not like the way it was mending. Be it due to his exhausted healing magic or from his lack of good health, it had stayed badly damaged after his last molting. He pondered over the notion as to what function it might ever serve him in its state. His paw slid forward and grasped down upon the pelvis of his former meal. He pushed down against it until it split. He licked at the marrow to appease his aching emptiness. Soon, it would be time to test his new strength.