Ankyra Sound river turns to dust

Just as she's ready to turn away for the last time, her call is answered. It's faint and unfamiliar. Her fur stands on end, shiver running down her spine. She's frozen in place, uncertain; has she imagined it? The seconds tick by.
Finally, she lifts her muzzle again to return the call. Now it's questioning, beckoning. She turns from the shoreline numbly, stiff with cold and melancholy. Her first few steps toward the source are tentative — she can't be certain it's the right direction. She can't be certain it's real. The yearling halts altogether, then, and waits to hear a second response if one will come.