So far as Mary was concerned, there was nothing wrong with a bit of rest, especially after taking a journey such as she had. It was getting colder with each passing day, though as she made her way toward the east, it seemed that the drop in temperature had been expedited. Food was scarce, but she'd become so accustomed to filling up on water and scraps that it barely fazed her at all. That is until she decided that it was time for a break to soothe her aching joints, at which point the hunger began to slowly set in. 

There was a thin creek not far off that called for Mary's attention; she trotted over, humming a low victory song, and began to lap at the icy water. She drank until her thirst was quenched, then began to look around for any signs of life until her eyes rested on another wolfy thing not too far off. Hello? she called out, expecting a response.

The other, obviously intoxicated beyond her wits, rose to greet Mary. Her ears twitched and her tail did a slow wag, but she calmed her anxieties for fear of seeming rude. Oh, no thank you, she said in the calmest voice she could manage. Normally, Mary avoided the company of this sort; those who were willing to sacrifice eternal salvation for temporary satisfaction had no place in her circle. Still, she knew better than to hop on her high horse and strut away as she might have once done and decided that it was more in her favor to spend a few moment with the drunkard.

I'm Mary, Mary Scott. It was a simple name but she liked it. Of all the things she'd once had to remember her family, it seemed that her name was the only one left. Mary took a few steps forward, the wind blowing through her fur to reveal the darker roots and highlighted points, then sat back on her haunches to observe the stranger. It's a nice day, don't you think? I've surely seen worse.

Not everyone was raised the same, that was for sure. Mary cocked her head slightly to the right, a silent, Hm? written on her face. It was bold of Poet to assume that one had enough trust to share any sort of conversation beyond small talk just yet, but she figured there was no use in nagging this stranger about her poor manners. What do you want to know? she asked. Mary had plenty of stories to tell, if that's what Poet was looking for. 

Why don't you tell me about yourself instead? Why are you doing this to yourself? Of course, everyone had their reasons for the things that they chose to do in life, but this was one of the poisons that Mary just couldn't seem to wrap her head around. Wolves like Poet at least held more dignity than some of the street-walkers she'd met along the way, but so far as the word was concerned, these things were one in the same.

Well, we're all sinners. Doesn't mean we can't be good, too, Mary said quite matter-of-factly. There was no one free of sin, as it was an integral part of the flesh; just as Poet said, they were no more than flesh granted speech, but Mary thought that the spirit deserved just as much recognition. I think that you're selling yourself short, Poet. Sure, you're a sinner on the surface, but who are you? Why was she called Poet? What did she do to deserve such a title; was Mary in the presence of an artist? She'd always wished that she'd been gifted with a talent, and had yet to realize that her specialty was meant to be in preaching. 

Mary drew in a deep breath and pushed back her shoulders. I'm a mother and a wife, but I had to leave my family behind. All of them -- her children, their fathers -- were resting so peacefully in their graves, their souls frolicking above, so she'd decided that it was time she moved on. Sometimes, she thought that she could hear the voices of either late husband whispering for her to wake up each morning or eat something when she forgot, and Mary listened contently; she felt comfortable knowing that they were near.