Bramblepoint hooooo?

Her breath was soft as the sound of another's approach filled the brambles, and Owl froze like a deer— only her ears moved, working to catch the direction of the sound that she might plot her hasty escape. Whatever thin courage had flowed in her breast moments before had ebbed, shrinking behind her fear and memory of being hunted. But it was too late for her to run— and, perhaps, despite her cowardice, the lone ghost was weary of her isolation. 

"N—no," she breathed shakily, licking nervous drool from her lips. Owl's eyes were wide, and her body shrank in on itself. She very well might've come across the wolf, but her memory purged itself frequently; it wasn't as if she had made an effort to be near other wolves, let alone converse with them. This was the first in months, and despite herself, the snowy female felt a desperation growing within her body— a desperation that was heightened with the scent of pack on the others' fur.