Ouroboros Spine One young wolf has a larger heart than all these men combined

@Nantahala <3!

There existed an ever present itch in Lightfoot’s pawpads. Later in life, she would learn this was called wanderlust, and she had inherited it from her mother.

The other girls learned skins, learned all the womanly things grandmother thought necessary. But for her, she was to be found everywhere she wasn’t supposed to be and then some. She learned, oh did she. But mostly, Lightfoot kept a schedule of wandering. Frequently, she could be found harrying small game. Or near Firemother, watching the leaves with big eyes. On more than one occasion, she had been found deep in the repose, trying to yank a young tree out of the ground.

She was boyish, unable to be satisfied by anything or anyone, and with her mother out of commission, she ranged farther afield. Even now, she lay flat on a rock in view of the borders, her chin square against its surface, staring. 

Do you ever think about what’s out there? She asked the approaching footsteps, though she made no effort to turn and look at who approached.

Thanks again for starting! <3

Like Lightfoot, Nantahala had a restlessness to her spirit that couldn’t be ignored. Sometimes, when her work and various duties didn’t busy her mind, she wandered about, reminiscing about her time outside of Moonglow, and yearned for her next adventure outside the borders.

She’d abandoned a particularly tough fur at the lakeside, deciding to come back to it later, and opted to meander around and let her mind wander to those far-off places she longed for. She spaced out for a while, allowing her body to kick into auto-drive as she walked around, and soon enough, she found herself near the borders.

The voice of Lightfoot made her come-to.

All the time, she answered quickly, spotting her sister lazing on the flat stone. It stinks we can’t go out there. But, she understood why Vairë forbid it—the world was as dangerous as it was vast.

It was Nantahala whose voice touched her ears, and she lifted one to acknowledge her words before letting both slick back against her head. She assembled herself sphinxlike on the rock, keeping her head and neck level on the hard surface.

It’s all I think about. She confessed. That feeling bubbled in her throat like acid, searing against the delicate skin there.

I want to roam. But I also want to stay at home. How silly is that? It didn’t make any sense to anyone with more than half of a brain, but Lightfoot was hardly thinking now. She stared out over the borders, feeling her heart thrum like the beat of horse’s hooves. She wanted nothing more than to run until her feet were bloody.

But she was shackled here by duty, wasn’t she? Duty to the familial, to the pack she called home. That familiar itch in her pawpads began again, and she scraped her paws across the rock in hope of some relief.

She shook her head—it wasn’t silly at all. Had she not found coping mechanisms to occupy her mind with, she would’ve ruminated on similar thoughts. When she did allow them to come through, she felt as though she was being torn in two opposite directions, one of which she was bound to by duty, and the other by whimsy. It was only the former—paired with the warning of their mother—that kept her in Moonglow.

I feel that way, sometimes, too, the admittance was like nails against a chalkboard; it wasn’t often that she said such things out loud—that she admitted that things weren’t okay. But, with Lightfoot, she felt some comfort in being candid and learning of their shared experiences. But I try not to think about it much—it’s why I’m always so busy. She looked towards the borders and latched her paw onto her opposite elbow, sighing heavily as she fell silent.

Even now, she was tempted to run—they could go in and out without being noticed, and nothing would go wrong. At least, that was what she told herself.

Has mom said anything to you about being able to go out more? she asked after a prolonged pause. She hadn’t brought it up to Vairë, as she didn’t want to bother their mother while she was sick, but she wondered if it’d come up naturally in conversation for them.

Nantahala felt the same, and to that Lightfoot could only feel a surge of relief, followed by a deep, yawning pit of guilt. Dragging her sister into this with no regard for anything she had here.

Lightfoot‘s only ties seemed to be familial.

She hasn’t said much at all. When she’s lucid, she asks for dad. Or grandma. When she’s not..she just mutters things. Lightfoot spent a lot of time beside her den, listening, hoping. Clarity was so far from her grasp, but she still wanted it.

Grandma wants me, or us, to speak for her at the woman’s circle. But Nantahala… Something in her churned. She licked her lips, letting her ears slide back.

I don’t know why, but I can’t. There was something there she had no name for, but felt all the same.