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The wind was chilly, and she shivered against its breath. She was not accustomed to the elements. Her coat was warm but not warm enough for the beginnings of winter nipped at her ears, her muzzle, her feet; anywhere the plush furs of her pelt did not cover. She lay curled tightly in a small hollow in the ground, and sighed forlornly. Still, she missed home, and the comforts therein. She had not wished for this life and still resented it, despite her efforts to habituate, to learn, and to become wild.

There was a stubborn streak in her, however. She spurned her own dismal thoughts and rose to her paws with a determined look on her face. There was not going back, and she had to keep going forward, so she made her way to the borders, to take a turn at patrolling them and marking them as she had seen the others do. She approached a tree and reared up on it, raking her claws down the bark and rubbing her chin and cheek against the trunk. She repeated this on another tree down the line, and in this work she was distracted.