Moonspear I'm all out of thread-naming patterns

Terribly engrossed by the thoughts that whirled through her head, thoughts of the cold season and what came with it, she ventured forth rather absentmindedly. There was little pattern to the way in which she moved, her path directed nowhere and her movements, as a whole, graceless; she plowed along with little care for what she might disturb in her passing, the sights that brushed by hardly acknowledged. Only when the silence was broken had she come to a dead stop, heart pounding and hackles shooting up, a sidelong glance becoming the only thing keeping her fight-or-flight instincts from kicking in—because it was only her mother.

Yama relaxed and picked back up at a steady trot, tail wagging. “Hi,” she greeted sheepishly, embarrassed by her reaction; she was not always the bravest, having often relied on the signals of others to tell her how to behave in her childhood, but to be so startled was something new entirely. Perhaps it should be a lesson to her, to better analyse and be aware of her surroundings, even when tucked safely within the boundaries of her parents’ claim.