Whitefish River but then the fish gets caught

Muirrin had never truly identified with a season before—they all had their merits and faults, she supposed—but the crisp chill of autumn was beginning to find its way into her heart. It awoke in her a sense of new beginnings and a sense of connection to the world she was only beginning to understand. Her emotions were varied, all jumbled and twisting in her breast, but a sense of peace and belonging was beginning to emerge. Even as she watched and caught the fish, using it as a metaphor for her life, Muirrin felt no bitterness or sadness. What was, simply was.

Before the agouti female could begin to devour the fish she held in her jaws, someone shrieked her name. Startled, Muirrin almost dropped her prize, but firmly reset her grasp before turning slightly to see who it was—surely, if they were calling her by that old name, it was someone familiar. By the time that the Blackthorn had turned, the blur of fire-and-black had closed more than half the distance. There was no time to dodge, and Muirrin could only tense and cringe as the blonde female barreled into her.

Evidently, Muirrin's grip on the fish wasn't as tight as she had thought—as she staggered backwards from the blow, the creature was dropped back into the river. Whether it was lucky enough to have survived the ordeal or not, the Blackthorn could not be certain; the river's current had already whisked it away. As she struggled against the weight of her attacker, the agouti female loosed a soft growl, "Aw, Turq, you made me lose my lunch!"

For Muirrin was suddenly and acutely aware of exactly who this was.