Qeya River i've been searching for the daughter of the devil

Roll.

The wind picks up, rushing past her and ruffling her fur. Snow wafts in front of her and she closes her eyes to combat flakes hitting her face. With the shift, she stumbles over the snow and snaps open her eyes. Trying to steady her footing, the scent plays tricks on the edges of her nose, coming and going so much that she isn’t sure where it’s coming from or if it exists at all. When she steels her gait, she keeps moving in the direction of her home. Her howl would make the distance, but whether or not anyone is close enough to come in time leaves her silent. 

Thuringwethil takes a long breath, holding it deep in her chest to hoard the strength of the smell. The gift the wind leaves is welcome, a chance for the dark leader to use it to her advantage. She turns her head, raising the incline up the slopes of the ridge, to see a hint of silver mixed against the shadows and snow. Massive prints lead to the figure and Thuringwethil’s heart leaps into her throat and struggles to choke it back down, her breath lodging in the back of her throat.

She slowly forces herself to release a gust of warm air in front of her face. Heda's nose lifts slightly, tail arched over her spine, as if the pume were a wolf at her borders.