Twisted Slough An isle of flightless birds

erzulie roved inland. rosalyn's careful words were upon her ears: a place to winter. while the harlot was far too proud and self-assured of their ability to conquer the winter alone, she was no fool. a pack might be necessary if the snows grew harsh, much as she hated to admit it. 
it was the stench that drew the delicate-boned creature, enough to wrinkle her nostrils and slow her steps. yet she moved closer all the same. the sudden shrill honking of geese exploded into the atmosphere. she jumped, lifting her muzzle as the sky filled with a large flock of frightened fowl.
a boyish spate of cackling came into earshot now, and erzulie narrowed her mintglow gaze at the lanky figure streaking after the flushed geese, laughing as he went. and yet the sight warmed her somehow; she settled to watch, some fondness of expression wreathing her features.