Gyrfalcon's Keep So let the river run.

Durnehviir's posture remains entirely neutral, though her eyes stay fixed to the other wolfess blonde features. It occurred to her then, as she hovered quietly around this young stranger, just how much she has changed in the few short months since she his her uncle farewell at the edge of the Teekon. Previously a quiet, submissive and perhaps even mousey girl who travelled from pack to pack, she has grown considerably into a far more confident, dominant woman. She did not hide her eagerness to ascend the hierarchy, which had truly come to life in her display over the now absent Sunspot.

When the loner points her bloodied muzzle in her direction and their eyes finally meet, the russet Frostfur bristles somewhat. Fleetingly, her upper lip twitches; a flash of white teeth beneath to show her that while Durnehviir may be little, she could be fierce if she had to be. Her newest acquaintance does not move to defend the carcass she'd found though she does seem to hesitate, and thankfully went with the polite option of offering a greeting.

"Hello," the dragoness says in return, pricking an oversized ginger ear. "Be careful of the meat; it does not smell fresh." Perhaps there was a reason why the gyrfalcons had left the remains to rot.