The raven stag had been away from the forest; he had been so very far away -- but still, when it happened he felt it. It was a painful shift in his mind, and then he knew.

He had traveled quickly, faster than ever, but it had been to late. He had known in his heart that it would be too late, and he hated himself for it, but he flew on the vanguard winds of the storm anyway, because maybe, maybe he was wrong? But somewhere deep inside him he knew, and he dared not tell himself, but he flew with such fury just to dampen the immense sorrow welling up inside.

Virgil. His first friend, for a long time his only friend, gone.

The raven stag should be used to it by now; all of them will go, someday, and leave him behind. But he is not. It is always heart-rippingly painful. He has tried to distance himself, but sometimes it does not work -- all too often it does not work.

He comes back to the forest, sees the tears of those who mourned, and he cannot go to them. He does not want to disturb them with his own sorrow, they have enough of their own.

The black undercurrents in his mind threaten to rise and swallow him. Panic waits patiently just outside his waking mind, and so he does what he usually does to cope. Isolation.

He shifts into his raven form. Birds cannot weep, birds cannot cry, and there are no familiar faces in the sky. And he flies, and flies, and hoarse croaks echo over the forest, a lament for his friend.