Sleeping Dragon it exists in a finished world, beyond the reach of common sense

Her muscles tense and she lifts her paw off the ground, half in preparation for an attack and half to ease the pressure from the weight; however, the wolf offers a submissive posture. A smile pricks at the corners of her mouth but she fights it, listening with cupped ears as the other explains. Another lone wolf and from the same direction she’d come but her scent does not bring familiarity but weeks on the move can erase the scent of ones home easily. It is refreshing from her former encounters that a wolf so easily submits and brings a little comfort to her body. It reminds her of home and the power she had there and what she doesn’t have here. Yet.

“I’m Thuringwethil,” she introduces, biting back her title. The wolf doesn’t recognize her and she doesn’t either so the information of where she’s from remains untold should there be any connection she missed. Seageda is to be buried even if it remains deep in her heart, buried deep upon her decisions. The young woman looks for signs of recognition of her name but continues anyway. “This is my home,” she says, pointing toward the incline of the mountain. “There are a handful of other packs south of here,” she says, recalling what little information Gyda has given her but she’s done little to investigate herself. “Are you searching for a home?”