Dawnlark Plains all my dreams are in a width of languages my tongue can speak

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she too finds hints and recent nesting places, but not enough to offer a clear trail, and never the birds themselves. frustrations mounts slowly, carefully, and her movements become stiff with tension after every failed investigation into a scent. 

a spot of movement has her heart do an odd little skip inside her chest; after so long off failed findings, the success is jolting. she offers a soft call for Aviana, fixated in the movement in the underbrush; unable to get much closer lest the wind push her scent towards the birds, their keen beady gaze catch her own movement.