Bearclaw Valley Ghosts of our past

Nanook expected many things from Valette when she would identify Nanook as the one who had left their pack in silent retreat. A scathing tongue, a stare of disdain, a cutting retort fueled by anger and contempt. But what the other gave was none of these things, but instead a strange look that blinked through the dark one's eyes, and a peer so intense Nanook felt exposed beneath the eyes of the Valley, stripped of all fur and flesh. Nanook flinched away.

But then, her words dropped like a stone in the water, and Nanook felt her breath freeze in her lungs.

Desna.

Heat rushed the sterling rogue, and burned a fire through the length of her. The world fell to silence, and something like a river rushed in her ears. She saw the movement of... of Desna's lips, but her words were lost to the tirade of denial welling in the Apaata's pounding chest.

This was a trick. A mirage. Some apparition conjoured by the heat, or her weariness, or her overwhelming stress. Or maybe all three. Whatever, Nanook didn't know, but this Desna wasn't real. She couldn't be.

But how badly she wanted her to be. A battle of emotion danced through the lines on Nanook's face, until her old fire sparked through her depression, and her eyes caved to distress and frustration, and a reflection of the distant hope scrawled within the apparition's own. Through all her fear, she wanted this Desna to be real. So, gingerly, Nanook reached out her muzzle to finish the distance between the vision and herself, and sought to lend a touch to the ghost of Desna's cheek, shaking with the fearful expectation her sister would disappear the moment she pressed against her.