Barrow Fields give me the bed of bloody arrows

@Nyx, forward-dated a few days.

Each morning progresses with a new level of distress and irritability. Most of it is manageable, keeping quiet when things rub the wrong way and avoiding wolves all together. Typically she is eager to work with her wolves as she runs into them, hunting and patrolling and sparring, but the moment someone’s scent becomes thick, she backtracks and goes the other way.

As she picks her way through the forest, successfully avoiding a run in with one of her children, and ends up breaking past the barrier that is their claim without a second glance.

The fields open up before her, still coated with snow, giving definition to the terrain. Born where most days are cold, she has never minded the snow. Living in the teekons, where the summers are hotter, she enjoys the cooler days. But today she can’t get comfortable enough, feeling her blood hotter than usual. Her feet itchy and she shuffles her feet, debating whether to sink herself into the ground and bury beneath the layer of snow or expending the pent up energy all in one burst.

Thuringwethil licks her lips, continuing along until she grows tired of indecision and takes off in a thunderous gallop across the open field.