Dragoncrest Cliffs sheidgeda

It felt as though she had donned new skin. Emaleth had outgrown the confidence she had worn within her den site, and as she grew it had become tighter and more stifling— she hadn't realized it, and still didn't, but her devotion to Deirdre had held her from her potential. She had moved from protector to shadow, and she had lost herself in the between places of Donnelaith. As her sister's voice grew, hers had grown softer. But here on the cliffs! It had been mere hours, but the yearling felt born anew— untethered by the grief of her childhood, reveling in the freedom of carrying no burden on shoulders too young for them. Emaleth felt a pang of guilt at that, but swiftly willed it away— Deirdre had chosen that life for herself, and it had been unfair of the pale witch to thrust it also upon her that they might share in the suffering.

How easily she had forgotten that once, she had desired no less.

She moved along the borders, pausing to mark them with her urine and scrape her teeth and fur against a jutting bush or tree. But Emaleth could not be everywhere at once, and she was distressed to find that another had come dangerously close to their threshold. Tail held high, her posture proud, the Mayfair summoned the proudness of her heritage and approached the strange woman— she did not recognize her, and though she wouldn't recognize many of her pack mates at this point, Emaleth did notice the lack of wolf-scent upon the stranger.

"This land is claimed," she told the other firmly, mirroring the words Wildfire had spoken to her earlier that day. Her own wolf-scent was weak, but there would be traces of the Bandrona and commander that still lingered there. She had told Thuringwethil that she would protect this territory with her life, and she felt and eagerness to prove it— inexperience though she may be, there was only one way to learn.