The Sentinels Under The Moons Glow

Maybe @Pippin or @Lotte or @Starbuck .... ? Anyone, really, Blackrock or Donneliath!

By this time in her life, Witchhazel's frame was apparent, and though she hadn't lost any of her baby fat, she was much taller than when she'd joined Donnelaith. Her legs were long and, like the rest of her body, graceful, and her creamy coat had paled into an almost white color; the russet of her crown and saddle had only grown more fiery, mixing colors between ginger and red in a beautiful pattern, and the cardinal of her tail only brightened along with her personality. There was no two hairs that stuck the same way, soft and fluffy as her coat was, giving her a disheveled and wild look -- the most interesting feature, however, was her bicolored eyes. The left was a brighter blue from the pale crystals she'd been born with, but the right was a neon apple green, likely inherited from her late mother. 

Moreso than just outward changes, Witchhazel grew every day -- smarter, swifter, more balanced, lingual -- and so did her skills. The plants she collected now, though she still didn't know each, were carefully rolled together and wrapped in leaves to be kept safe -- and to litter @Cas' den, of course, because she often forgot to put them in her cache. They were harder to find now, for some reason, and the little flower didn't understand that it was the cold wilting the plants.

Now that Winter had fully set in, Witch found herself faced with an entirely new world to explore. Already, she'd taken to stalking the animals of the The Sentinels: not to hunt, but to learn about them. Where they lived, what they ate, how they moved through the forest -- it often frustrated her that she, too, could not flutter from tree to tree as the birds did. The little girl also found herself trying to follow underground passages too: digging up mole tunnels at perhaps yards, wedging herself into abandoned fox dens, digging her own holes and attempting to go gods knows where. The cold ground had become too stiff for her delicate paws to rip apart, however, and so today found the light-footed puppy closer to the shore than she'd been in days -- the day where she would follow the shimmering fishes in the water would come when the snow was gone, and she could walk in the open area without the wind cutting sharply into her frame.

So far, she'd found nothing worth noting -- a few sand-smoothed sticks, a couple of colorless and boring stones here and there, maybe a shell she now had a dozen or more of -- and her paws carried her closer to the Blackrock border. She didn't plan on crossing it today, but had adapted well to the neighbor wolves sharing homes. Reserved and wraith-like as she was usually, Witchhazel hadn't met many from either pack. Days and nights spent with "Cas-teal" were very much so enough for her. The sun was dipping below the horizon, and though she knew the muddy warrior would either find or call to her soon, tonight seemed a good one to stay out a little later.