Stavanger Bay The murdered Red Herring

Doe knew very little about Furiosa. They're shared together an evening and nothing more. Words had been exchanged, of course, but it'd pertained to the here and now, as most of Doe's conversations tended to. As this conversation surely would; for Doe could cobble together very little about past events.

What she knew was the idea of Furiosa. A warrior. A raging sea. A mother.

"I don't know," she said softly. And then, "She was a mother."

She'd felt so strong and alive that evening in Stone Den, and the memory of her had lingered long after her scent had disappeared. Doe would miss the comfort that the woman's promise had brought to her thus far. That she could be summoned, if the red woman had need of her.

"Will you take me to where she was killed?" asked the dusky shewolf, the words sounding like a request but the sharpness in her voice making it a demand. "I want to know the scent of her killer." Perhaps it was the same wolf that'd injured her Shadow.