Wapun Meadow Enter lightning

Beneath the watchful eye of the quarter moon, a pale she-wolf traversed a great field of flowers. Her pace was deliberate and slow, burdened by the weight of eight long years of ever-changing life and also by her lifestyle, which was to do things in her own time, as many of the Dotharan did. The scent of bison was absent and her motivation was low, for the old wolf wanted nothing more than to lay upon the peak of Kraza Dothar until she could join her late husband in the Night Lands with a proper ceremony. Alas, her stubborn heart would not cease its beating and her spirit would not relinquish its hold on her worldly body no matter how long she may have waited, so Laqikki had no choice but to keep on keeping on. It wasn't in her nature to linger, slow as she may be.

The crone's decision to leave the sacred mountain wasn't made lightly, but Laqikki had read the omens as clearly as Awazzi had. There was need of their prowess. Somehow the slightly younger crone had outpaced the white-eyed hag, but she didn't dwell on it, nor did she dwell in wait for her fellow Dosh Khaleen cohorts. Time kept moving, and with it, the wolf had to keep moving as well.

She stopped to examine a wildflower half-squashed beneath a broad but gnarled paw, and tsked in her throat. "Nomeno ui thric ferrod qumado," she snorted quietly to herself in a voice cracked with age. There were no bison here, but then why was the scent of Awazzi's wayward nephew so strong here, in this pathetic land of frilly flowers?