Sól was still quite depressed. She had stopped hunting, and instead took to pacing around Bjarna's old den more often than not. When she wasn't there, she was at the standing stones — just watching them. Thinking.
Why were they here? What was their purpose? Sól was staring up at them now from a slight distance, wondering what Bjarna had thought of them and what stories she might have told. Whatever her thoughts, they had vanished with the girl herself. Now Sól would never really know — so she wasted her hours on speculation, a path without any closure. It didn't make her feel any better.
Sightings of the amber cub had been sparse. So much so she’d believed the girl had moved on. She’d only known her from the distance she kept with the rest of the pack.
So cresting a gusty hillock she is surprised to come upon the scarlet silhouette among their ranks still. With silver eyes she watches curiously for a long moment before deciding to snout her way through the veld, uttering an amiable little note as she nears.
Her face; she looks so much like Bjarna with those strange folds and heavy brow that looked like a struggle to keep from dipping over weary eyes. Surely this is no coincidence.
“Hello,” she offers in hush, as if anything stronger might startle her.