Shadewood dust and bones

The meeting with Max had, impossibly, put the frustration in her up a notch. It roiled in her stomach— probably would give her a damn ulcer if she continued to feed it. It wasn't that she was mad at Maxine, exactly. She didn't think she had it in herself to precisely direct distaste at her. Hell, it'd be like cursing at a kid and punching it, or something. She was mainly mad at Atticus, his band of merry men, and herself. The realisation that everything had changed (and more importantly, that things would never quite go back to the way they were again) had really blasted a hole in her. Honestly Feline, what are you so scared of?

She turns her head up abruptly (at a literally breakneck speed) as she hears nearby footsteps. Through the slender and sinuous bodies of trees she spies an older woman; she appeared to be the epitome of contentness, judging by the look on her face. Feline purses her lips and cocks her head to the side. "What are you smiling about?" she asks, almost accusingly, though her expression is almost a confused one, an amalgamation of the more incongruent emotions.