Twisted Slough a wind age

@Ragna

The plague was gone but the scars still remained.

The woodlands, usually lush with magnificent color and beauty this time of year, were quite lacking in splendor. Copses that had recovered before summer were stripped bare in some places by those desperate to fill their stomachs before the chill consumed the wilds and blanketed it in fluffy snow. Still, the world spun; the day turned to night, and the wolves lived on.

Solveig came, as she usually did, without so much as a thought to why. It is a harsh and brutal land, but made up for it in the wealth of curiousities it held deep with the heart. She wished to unravel it; to follow a tiny thread to the larger tapestry. To observe the intricate details and feel, for once, completely free. 

But it was not these things she thought of now as she wound through the twisted, damp tangle of the thicket. Her paws sought easy purchase on the muddy ground, though the constricting latticework of the vines and roots proved a far more difficult obstacle for the hulking she-wolf than she initially anticipated. She was large, far too large to squeeze through some of the tighter turns or beneath the roots. So she simply chose to climb over them.

It was on one particular bridge of vine, root, and dilaphitated logs that she stopped to ponder her surroundings with a curious flick of a soft ivory ear.