Blackfeather Woods dream of a street

there was a rustle and a clatter that broke astara from her wandering, drawing her attention to the fringes of the forest. there, a slim wolf stood, an exposed skull skulking besides her. astara noted the upturned snow around them — no doubt the black-clad sheba had plucked the bones from their snow-rooted cover.

astara examined the specter at the borders, noting the cold river of russet that seemed to bleed cleanly into black along the she-wolf’s pelt. it reminded the nightcub of the bleeding willows deep within blackfeather’s hearth, which bore weeping stains of mahogany across their blackened boughs. 

the girl stalked forwards, tail held straight behind her and her hackles fanning along her spine. her posture said plainly her place here, and if allowed, she would inspect the thin woman with her rifling snout in the traditional greeting of her species.