Setting: September 20th midday.
The lowlands felt more stable than the mountain. Around her, in every direction save for directly behind, there were rolling hills and fern heavy pockets of woodland. She was nervous for further rumblings, although she was soon distracted with the scent of fox. As far as Miyax was concerned food was food, and not even a relative like the slinking fox was off the table.
Her stomach ached; the last time she had eaten must have been two weeks ago, maybe more, before the pack splintered to nothing. The foxes scent was thinner towards the mountains, so Miyax compromised and ventured across the hills until the land evened out. She passed by a patch of old growth forest—a thickly built oak surrounded by mixed elm—and she paused to observe the descending ridge.
It looked as if it was freshly dug. It could not have been a mark made by a fox, it was much larger than anything she had ever seen, like a scar cutting through the green. It was unsettling to look at. Miyax was uncertain about crossing over it, making the mental leap that it could have been caused by the shaking earth.
Without anywhere else to go she turned and began to hike north along the leading edge of the scar. The scent of fox was temporarily pulled in to her path by a gust of air, and so Miyax paused to taste it with a few sharp inhalations, but as it faded so did her interest.
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