"Where does one go when they die?
Where did all the wolves who stood in these lands go?"
"- They must have returned to the wilderness. To a haven where family and warmth await.
The wolves cannot leave; once they join the pack, the only way to leave is to be retired.
- Then those "retired" wolves must have returned home, having earned what they wanted and being full of hope."
"We are the feathers of a Wing. Leaving isn't as simple as you think. Just like how a feather doesn't detach from a wing of its own will.
- Then, where did all the retired wolves go?
They're bound to the pack the moment they enter. Even if they do retire, they are doomed to stay here forever."
- Long ago, in some world, wolves believe that they would become beautiful beings with small wings when they died. It's a silly story. Nonsensical too.
If we get wings, will we be able to leave this place? Do we get our wings only after we retire?"
"They say the mourner with a huge luggage on his back had come to be a savior to all. Eventually, he himself was trapped in this place, and now he wanders the pack with only the memory of an empty faith. He's carrying a pot, A large pot to pay tribute to the wolves who have nowhere else to go. However, it is still too small to comfort those innocent sacrifices.
Inside it is a kaleidoscope of butterflies waiting for the moment to fall asleep. Until then, they flutter their wings uselessly. The wings that may have been many jumbled into one, or one split into many. Butterflies are supposed to pollinate flowers, but not a single proper flower blooms in this place. There is no choice but to wait. After all, there must be an end to every world."
Spicebush Swallowtail
Herbalist 
Herbalist