Ravensblood Forest of dancers and dreamers

Enough was enough. Kitsch was completely fed up with this type of sluggish, lowly existence; it seemed that the world considered her no better than a common field mouse and was consistently knocking her about… but was she not Kitsch, the sole heir to the throne of salabhasana — beloved and celebrated by all that knew her? Did royal blood not pump through her veins? The fact that she was no longer surrounded by her high society did not change the fact that she was a lady and Kitsch was dying to be treated as such.

So Kitsch huffed and she puffed and made her way across strange lands. For the pearl, hunting was hard. Oftentimes, even the easiest of prey would evade her grasp. Sometimes she moved too loudly or too slowly, sometimes her fangs would miss their mark and sometimes her turns were not as tight as they could be — for she never really did learn to hunt. Back home, she had no need. But out here, Kitsch had a very real need.  The girl was thin and her skin hung loose; her pale, thin pelt did nothing to hide the fact that she was close to starving. Kitsch subsisted off of mostly carcasses; disgusting flesh left frostbitten by the cold. The winter had not been kind to the ungulates, and Kitsch may not have survived if she had been without their corpses. The winter had not been kind to the princess either and Kitsch promised herself that, when the snow’s fury quieted, she would join a pack. any pack. the first pack she found, she was theirs. First, she needed to live — then she could think about her next move. Recently she had been feeling that she had been destined to be cast aside. The world moved on around her, but she seemed to have fallen through the cracks; but she would not longer be a forgotten remnant of her lost world.

And so Kitsch lifted her maw to the sky and let loose her song for the pack’s leadership, as so many others had once done for her.