Bonesplinter Ravine puppets with their strings cut

She was closer to home this time, at least.  She liked lingering beneath the canopies of Hideaway Strath and had traveled to its edge only to come face-to-face with the most macabre territory she'd ever seen in the Wilds.  Bones littered the ground, some exposed and some half-buried, some still attached to rotting corpses.  

But she couldn't help herself.  Forward she marched into the ravine, occasionally stopping to wonder at the piles of bones.  The ground beneath her paws varied between wet and dry, and she mused that the collections had likely formed when the floodwaters came during springtime.

The sharp bite of her silverblue gaze trailed upwards to the steep mountains above.  She imagined falling from them, the feeling of wind in her fur and the sickening crunch as she'd impact with the ground, then silence all around.

"Who were you, my bony little friend, before you fell down here?"

Her head whipped 'round to the source of the voice, a slight gasp pulled from her lips.  Who was asking, anyway?  She couldn't see him, but she moved until she could, another reply echoing from the rocks.  "What stories can you tell me?"

She turned the corner just as the clouds overhead shielded both wolves from the light.  Even with a pelt as vibrant as hers, the only visible thing was her stormy staring eyes.  Depends on who's asking, she replies, leaning confidently up against the rock.