As a wandering wolf, she had few rituals to speak of beyond those that kept her alive. Rise in the morning, hunt when convenient, explore what she may to find another den before the night. But as a wolf of the Vale, rituals became a common occurrence however strange they tended to be. Her offerings to her brethren were perhaps the most notable, yet her wandering in the night escaped the attention of most.
It had begun at first when she felt the confines of the den were too warm and her body craved the soft caress of the cool night air. Then each time she succumbed to the innocent venture, the amount of time she spent wandering increased first by minutes then hours. And in truth, she did not believe her denmate had noticed. His mind as of late had been fixed on the safety and security of the Vale, that she did not believe her shadow paid attention to her behavior, let alone any other changes that had occurred with her. The sentiment left her bothered somewhat, concerned as to why she did not hold his eye as she believed she had before. Their silence had dwindled from a pleasure to a burden, and her ventures soon became an escape.
With her ritual came the habitual marking of her trail. Bits of her fur from winter clung to bush and brittle twig, so heavy with her scent that her nostrils became attuned to it more than the woodland itself. She did not know why she did this, only that each time she paused it was with the hope of being noticed. But that too began to fade as the nightly strolls turned to hours from the den. Efforts gone by the time the sun rose for the coming day.
And this night as she emerged, she perceived no different than the other. Minding her companion, she slipped from the cool wall to feel the air though her fur upon heated skin. She was quiet, as always, as she took the first steps to again practice her ritual… |