Lost Creek Hollow my skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel

Root nods her head but she doesn’t brush off the chance to learn to fish.  It’s apart of what she does, isn’t it?  Even if it isn’t something she does often, she should know how to anyway.  She stores it away for later, in the spring when the creek thaws and everything’s warm again and she won’t catch hypothermia from trying to eat.  “Perhaps another time?” she asks, hopeful the woman would be able to teach her another point in the future.

“I know,” Root tells her with a raised brow, turning her attention to something ahead of her.  Nothing in particular catches her attention and she thinks about the herd of deer she’s to track in soon, once she’s able to get her things together to leave the pack. “It’s what I’m best at,” she clarifies.  She’d trained since she was young.  Different tactics and patterns, organizing wolves to bring down a larger kill.  If her home hadn’t been destroyed, she’d be comfortable for the winter, but starting all over in easy mode hasn’t been ideal.