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Stil was exactly that, still, rarely moving. He rarely strayed from the graves the he kept. But word had traveled on the wind of a place where the dead are laid to rest in the most beautiful ways and death is celebrated, not feared. Most found his obsession morose, disturbing. But the Mothborn... Perhaps, if he was lucky, he could find kin who understood the debt the living owed to the dead and took pride in it, just as he.

And so, after saying farewell to each and every grave he had laid, he slowly made his way. It was a treacherous journey and not a short one. Often Stil had forced himself to stop when a body, bird or kin, it mattered not, was stumbled upon. Without complaint he did as he believed he was meant to. He made them whole as best he could, layed them to rest, and said a prayer before moving on once more.

But at last when he finally made his way into the tribelands, it was not long until the rumored swamp witch found him. Silently, he knelt before her, laying down his offering of wing, seed and bone. The bone, that had been the hardest for him to take, for his belief that all should be buried whole contradicted his taking of it. But this one was different, empty. The soul of this being had been scattered like his bones. There was nothing he could do for the lost one, he knew that.

Speaking was another thing Stil did not often do. But the answer was an easy one, he only hoped she would understand.

"I seek...to do what is right." He paused, struggling for words, "To help them, the dead. To make them whole. Maybe then... Maybe then I can be whole too." He lowered his eyes and waited patiently.