Bramblepoint my seat is leather,

Bramblepoint was a place Hydra regularly frequented as of late, and today, she moved with her sisters alongside her. They were at the heels of a herd, and harassed them toward Moonspear, when a breeze assailed her. There was something sickengly familiar to the scent, and her sister's sharp gazes landed upon her for her next command. 

Hydra glanced toward the shadows, and that was where they took to—one left, one right—as the Beta took a far more direct approach. The sound of the herd had faded, but their trajectory was still toward their home. Hydra had all but forgotten them as the din of their gallop faded to nothing, and she paused as she noted the clump of vomit. 

Weak, very weak. And soon, dead, once and for all—

It did not take long for the woman in full health to come upon the battered wolf, his back to her where she could not see his face. She saw red, and that alone—not the telltale sign of his Blackthorn heritage in the stripe he carried—and though she longed to throttle the bastard she imagined from behind, she would let him see his death, and call it by her name.

Swiftly, Hydra circled to face the front of him—two eyes stared back, and Hydra's fangs, once revealed in the mute snarl of the grim reaper, were sheathed. What she looked upon was not the face of a stranger. Tegan. And he looked unwell. Hydra thought of Gannet, first, who they had healed... then of Towhee, who she was certain would miss the Blackthorn boy. Her eyes assessed him, caught between her reason for approaching him at all and his wellbeing. 

Well—if he was not well enough to respond, she would know what to do. Titmouse, came her voice. He had survived. Her instinct had been right. He is alive? Hydra would leave nothing to uncertainty; not anymore.