Snowforest Taiga at a loss

aw but attn to @Hätiya !!

Once again, Black Hawk finds herself lost. The chaos of past days still a heavy presence in her heart, upon her skin in the form of wounds. An eye now lost to her bitch cousin, her mate gone with her treacherous cousin, her calves in tow. Alone, now that she'd deposited Ishmira and left her for the skilled hands of Winsook. 

An aching heart for children she'd barely knew. Calves she hadn't even been able to hold, to teach, to nurture. Still stuck with the bastard name of Lanzadoii when she felt anything but. A family, a culture, a legacy now dead to her, and she to it. 

A woman so strong and resolute now near to toppling. Of letting the weight of her failures and pain bring her to her knees. It's with dejection she sulks through the taiga, lips pulled into a scowl, her dead eye burning. It bleeds even still, but she would not allow a healer to mend it. 

It was pain she must feel, and that she must embrace.

coyote woman skulks forward from the brush, gazes with cold practicality at the fresh wounds, the missing eye. a battle both won and lost. she does not speak yet, approaching with slinking gait of coyote. infection has not claimed this woman yet, but if she is as stubborn as that scowl suggests, it will not be long. such a deep wound will not heal with time alone.

"your blood will attract monsters, wolf." no sympathy, no pity. only the cold reality of a practiced survivor. kindness is a virtue she provides to none– particularly to scum who think themselves above, as all wolves do. kings and queens, they declare themselves. empires, they claim to build. filth, all of it. but she does not scowl at the thought, does not curl her lip in hostility. her stance remains cool, neutral, calmly awaiting a reaction before she responds in kind. she will not make her disgust known. not if some use can come of this.

A woman who moves like a serpent, low to the ground and shifty. A scent that reeks of coyote and wolf alike. Hawk's one eye hardens, that scowl pulling into a closed-mouth show of teeth. Tail stiffening at her hind, withers pricked and ruffled, still caked with blood that had long since dried. 

Overhead a vulture circles. It feels like an omen—as if this woman was here to walk her into deaths arms. Or here to scavenge off her carcass like the coyote she must be. Either way, Hawk isn't in the mood to entertain her, nor is she willing to greet death. 

"Seems like I already have." Her voice deep, a low growl. Her patience was incredibly thin these days—this woman better tread lightly. "Not in the mood for mongrel games." Hawk rasped. Watching as the vulture both in the sky and near her flank circle.

"i won't eatcha, if that's what's got you so riled. but my friend up there will in a week or so, once that hole in your face has grown green and nasty." the word is a sneer as it leaves her lips. and as if to prove her point the bird swoops low, silent before rising back overhead. watching, waiting.

a soft click of tongue against teeth and the vulture soars above, away and out of sight. hätiya gives the woman a smug look and sidles past her with head held high.

"garlic and clove, once you're finished mopin' like a damn dog. chew it, rub it on your gross eye-hole a few times a day 'n you'll be fine. or keel over and die, i don't really care."

"either way you're goddamn pathetic, draggin' yourself around like you're already dead. and that's comin' from me."