Dawnlark Plains the sun on my head is my crown

Jasny edges along the scentline. She smells a strong pack smell, thick on the nose, not entirely pleasant, on the occasional bramble and bush. Though she is not close enough to warrant an attack on her, she is close enough so that the faint wind carries the musk of many wolves, and close enough so she can see foottrails leading out of the territory where wolves upon wolves upon wolves have traveled.

She cuts out a tenacious figure, one that is compact and low-lying, but phlegmatic all the same. Jasny hesitates as she sees the figure of a pup, a young girl, at the foot of a tree. She approaches with a slower and quieter pace, the wild determination in her eyes softened into something more two-dimensional. "Is this your home?" she asks, in lieu of hello. Jasny had never been good with children.