Bearclaw Valley fruitless

like the rest of the wolves mona had come to consider family, she too had searched for the round boy, calling his name until all hope that he would respond left her. but the others in bearclaw had not given up the questing, and so neither would she. reminded by the bite of winter in the air that soon harder times would be upon them, the girl had attempted to divide her time searching and hunting. stigmata had returned, or at least had been scented on the borders; mona didn't know what to make of that.
her own birthday had come and gone with no fanfare from the mayfair; it was not something worthy of celebration. and so mona had not noticed the small creeping changes that had been wrought in her, detailing her small form with a maturity that seemed to cloak her overnight. she drew up the trail of laurel's scent and approached gingerly, for it was a site of children still. "laurel," came her soft voice; both sisters were aloof creatures, but it was only indra that mona knew. 
pausing with a half-lifted forepaw, the young scout awaited laurel's greeting of her before she would go on.