Within the den, he stirred, seemingly drawn to do so for little reason other than to entertain himself. For whatever reason, he had found himself alone that evening, coiled up in the shadows and warm as the outside world began to sink into darkness. During the day, he had explored the northern borders, curious as to whether he would find Natiya again to hear her lark song but alas, he had found himself little more than scuffed paws and scruffed fur. Of course, that suited him just as well, his mind prone to wander too far to worry over such trivial things. Not even his mother seemed to fuss over dirt nor dust and so, Enoch had fast learned to find fussing elsewhere. For him, it was in the intricacies of the world around them. He sought to find stories in the leaves and whispers in the mind.

But in the dark of their den, he finds only the face of darkness, an abyss that watched him tenderly as he pawed at the dirt, breathing in deeply each new scent he unearthed. Beneath the scent of his family and the feathers and fur they slept within, he found scents much more bizarre, much richer in their strangeness; once, he had found himself the stink of bone, a remnant from when he had still been unborn. His mother, it seemed, had not dug up all her caches and so, Enoch had found himself the featherlight bone of a pheasant's leg on which to chew. It was that same bone he chewed now as he pawed about, only having paused when he heard his mother by the den's mouth.

He rose quickly, the bone still between his teeth, as he clambered forward and into the faded light; he grumbled a greeting to her before his good eye lingered on the feathers she carried. His eye roamed up then, the dead eye of Heyel preoccupied with its own infinite blackness, and his lips peeled back in a gentle grin. "Are we putting this back together?" He leaned down and placed the bone at his mother's paws then with several slow waves of his tail as he stared up at her, curious and entertained by the prospect of creating their own pheasant together.