Whitefish River up the river

for my own timeline's sake, going to say that this occurs a little before her injury!

She had slipped from their borders early that day, mind set on travelling a little downriver, one of the places she had yet to explore. Hunger began to churn in her soon after, and it was with some regret that she remembered that she had neglected to eat from the caches in the past little while. But it hardly mattered; she decided, she could just as easily catch her own prey. 

A few more minutes of scouting had the shape fall into her vision, a barely moving, brown-clad thing. Thinking that she had chanced upon lunch, she approached with a little more vigour. As she comes closer, she realized that before her, lay not a deer, or some other prey, but instead a wolf. Her nose wrinkled at the strong smell of salt as she approached, gaze finding the gashes quickly. She stayed a short distance away, knowing the habit of animals to be fierce when startled or when weak and disturbed. She chuffed, low, hackles raised a fraction, attitude stoic, but uncertain.