Barrow Fields i don't fly around your fire anymore

Her tirade for stores had taken her out to the Barrow Fields. It’s been some time since she passed through here; a month or so, actually. She was used to being hunted, haunted—used to doing the same, so the enigmatic, earthen mounds had ceased to unnerve her. So, heeding Roses’ tidings, she began her search for moss.

The wolves of the Sound had been quiet, and for now, Aure welcomed it. The lull allowed her Drakru to take some sort of respite, to heal (lest they got themselves into a fool’s tangle and reopened the wounds she’d pored over.) Snowshoe paws carried her deftly from barrow to barrow, scarred muzzle wrinkling in disconfitute when none of the plush vegetation was to be found. When she did, though, a soft exclamation left her.

The next time she darted around a winter rise, it was with a wad of moss, and an expression of bright focus—that froze the moment she scented, and saw, one of the Sound wolves.

Quietly, she stilled where she wavered, barely breathing, moving, as she studied the keeled form, the sharp, frustrated eyes. Her snowy hackles fought to unfurl themselves, but she forced them to settle. Muzzle lowered, and despite it all, her ‘green thumb’ gave her cause to lurch forward a step—to tend to one who was hurt. Anyone.