Blackfoot Forest We are made of all those who have built and broken us.

@Siarut

She liked this place not. 

Even in the earliest hours of the mornings as the sun rose - blood red as it peeked at the tapeesa between the tangled silhouettes of the tree branches, the forest projected a dark and ominous aura onto the empath that had her head whipping to the side at the slightest rustle. She had not slept well, for how could she in such foreign lands with such eerie cries in the night? As morning set on, the first rays found the spearwife's ivory coat - lighting it afire even as the sky ahead burned vivid orange far to the east. She got to her feet, light-headed with the fatigue of a restless night. The tundrian shook it off with a literal shake of her thick mane, not unlike a bird ruffling its feathers, before continuing on.

Silent steps found her ghostly form stalking through the foggy gloom of the tangled tree limbs, her paws brushing the dew-dampened undergrowth as she glided. She moved as if she wished not to be seen, her head bowed and her shoulders hunched as if to be as small as possible. Pale, almost colorless, silver eyes flickered about the forest and the slightest noise was likely to startle her out of her skin. 

An ethereal being, the northern crept into the light on small, hesitant steps as she reached the stream. A flash of pink tongue was seen between her long, saber-like fangs as she approached the bank cautiously. Mud oozed between her paws, so dark it was nearly black, as she leaned over the water and drank deeply. She straightened, water dripping from her snout, looking further down the stream as if wondering where it led as her toes kneaded the mud in absent thought.