Blackfeather Woods Into the woods

Potema was grooming her fluffy white pelt, cleaning the spots that she left pure white and leaving the mud-stained ones alone. They were her temporary dyes until her mother deemed her worthy. She maintained their structure well, for a three-month-old. But her morning grooming was interrupted by a stranger. A stranger to her at least. She frowned at his gray-masked face, though Cicero greeted him cheerily. "Who're jou. Where hun'ten?"