Whitefish River a wound carved as an oath

Set at Whitefish River.
Evening, about 30 minutes before sunset.
Cloudy.

Licking her chops and spitting away loose hair that clung to her teeth, Sigrún rose from where she lay with a slain weasel between her forepaws. Catching the weasel had been no easy feat. Her hunt had mostly been a desperate, sloppy, ridiculous chase -- she was not the most adept hunter in her family by any means -- and she had gotten lucky when she chased the animal into a dead end and, in its panicked state, it stumbled and hesitated as it searched for a way out. It had tasted wonderful and had provided more of a meal for her than she'd had in quite a while. Her belly, though far from full, was comfortably sated for now. Casting one last look at the bloody, hollowed-out carcass, she then turned and padded toward the river.

She stepped into the river, walking a few paces out so that the cool water lapped above her ankles and tugged at the tip of her long tail. Lowering her head to drink, she was amused when she saw her reflection on the surface -- a grisly, macabre mask of red painted her muzzle and cheeks. A king's daughter and a hot-blooded warrior in her own right, she found a great deal of dark satisfaction in what she saw. Grinning, she lapped at the refreshing water until her thirst was sated. The sun was on its way behind the mountains to the west now, though it was cloaked behind heavy grey clouds that promised rain later. Turning to leave, she considered what her brother might say when she told him of her successful hunt today. The thought made her smile.