Silver Creek The march of ages

What a beautiful territory and name!

The old wolf had grown silent over the past few days. While normally quite talkative, and willing to give thought or advice to those who wanted or needed it, Shreya had run out of ways to preserve her energy. The day the locusts had come had been especially difficult. She had quietly accepted the growing possibility that she would die on this trek — her only hope now was that those three little puppies survived. Each night, before she slept, she would seek them out and simply look at them, making sure their tiny chests were rising and falling, and then she'd sleep, hard and hungry, until another day of this. And then another. And another... until they reached their last day of travel.

Muscles aching like a bastard, throat parched, and weaker than one of these sad stripped leaves, Shreya (who had fallen behind) caught up slowly to her packmates and looked upon their new territory. She stared. Oak Streams? This place looked exactly like her old home along the Colombia River. She blinked, and blinked again. Was that where they had come to? Somewhat delirious from exhaustion, the weary mentor sat floppily upon the bank, and stared on.