Whitebark Stream you have the universe in your veins

Traveling back over the stream, for her, are careful steps. It’s not a rushing water that would cause her feet to slip out from beneath her, or enough to splash, so when it hits her she has to stop and look behind her. Her movements had been easy, not disturbing more than she has to, but the cold water soaks through her dark fur, still full of tufts from her winter coat. She hadn’t noticed her tail being messed with, swaying lazily behind her like a cat.

Thuringwethil is silent for a moment, as she takes the rest of the time to get out on the other side of the stream, and turns back to watch Wildfire cross the rest of the distance. She remembers the girl isn’t much younger than she, remembers the other hadn’t been forced to grow up as she had been, but her playfulness sometimes remains lost on the leader. It’s there, like an instinct—she should know how to, but she doesn’t—or a memory she can’t reach. A memory she doesn’t actually have.

She swallows, and looks away. A question littered on her tongue she doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t quite want to spoil the mood. Instead she smiles, a haunting turn of her lips on dark fur, before she turns and continues forward.