The Heartwood Hopping through the forest

In time, the trees began to become slightly more scarce, intermittently dotting the land. Conifers changed to trees that hardly covered the land. These branches were darker, ominous; something from a horror movie, the very trees that convinced an unwise traveler that they had eyes. The air was thin, and looking to the skyline she could predict snow; the windchill was nonexistent fortunately, because there was hardly any wind at all. But when there was, the trees groaned, bark pressing against rough bark, dragging, miserable and shivering in their nakedness. Blanc eyed them without suspicion; she had been taught of Atka, of Sos, from her father, but she actively decided to not follow the faith. Her mother did not believe in spirits (though her mother admitted she would like to, if only to believe that her father—and Blanc's grandfather—lived even still). The only spirit there was was the spirit that you possessed; and when you were gone, that spirit, too, was gone. And so there was no fear in her step as she looked to the trees, her eyes hard and sharp. She was looking for something real.

As she weaved through the variety of trees, the smell became stronger. Blanc put no effort in disguising her approach or her search. Why bother? She only paused when she caught sight of a wolf that was still, and sniffed the air quickly to assess if there was any danger to be found here. The Tartok yearling could only smell the other, and when the other moved, Blanc dashed in her direction.

The pale wolf was unlike her relatives in her intent. Her highly esteemed grandmother and her aunts and uncles surely would have sought to avoid this figure. Blanc was socialized by family different than only Tartok; her environment was hard, but she was also given something the rest of her cousins never had. Blanc was surely her old mothers last litter, given her age, but Bluet cherished and loved them all the same. Death was mourned, even though her father disagreed and made it known. Life was cherished. Weak could be saved if given the chance. Her father shook his head. The weak die. The strong survive. Thrive. Her mother echoed his voice gently, You were given your mind to make your own choices. It was true that Tartok and its way were ingrained within her. She looked down on the weak. But could it be her who decided their fate? Could she do that? She did not know.

Time would tell.

Hey, Blanc greeted from afar, only now ceasing to move.