Meadowlark Prairie the irony of dying on your birthday

It was within her nature to leave her pups every once and a while. She often left them in the capable hands of Miraak, or one of her brothers if they were available, and she ran. Even though the cold burned her body, sending needles through her paws as they hit the ground, even though she had spent too much time cramped in the tunnels and her body was soft, she ran. The witch sped past the borders, intending on circling the field beyond the Woods before returning to her children. The snow slowed her path — she fell into a snow drift, the half-Arctic female chuffing the snow from her nose. Potema chuckled at herself, shaking what snow she could from her pelt, but she stopped dead in her tracks at a garbled whimper from nearby.

Her hearing had become remarkably better once she became a mother. It was almost supernatural. From a distance she caught the sound of a wounded creature. Her head rose as she scrambled from the divet in the snow. She was not the only one to hear the noise, remarkably. No, there was another, dark-furred, about the same age as she. Potema chuffed as she approached, her movements slow as she assessed the situation. Do you know her? She inquires of the golden-eyed woman, looking down at the injured creature.