Golden Glade rien pour l'instant

One half of the stick fell loose from her mouth, tumbling towards the ground with nothing more than its essence left behind. She dropped the other half just as quickly, boring of the action but mostly because of the pieces it left behind in her mouth. She worked them out quickly, tongue scrapping back against her teeth in lieu of the ability to spit. It wasn't the most effective thing she could do, but it certainly beat swallowing damp, rotting wood.

That of course, quickly became the least of her worries.

Startled by the chuff, the guard hairs along her spine and shoulders prickled uncomfortably the moment she laid eyes on the stranger. There was nothing familiar about the she-wolf; she had not traveled with them, certainly did not belong to the Frostfurs that she was less acquainted with. It was an instantaneous rise of rushing dread then—these woods were far less safe than the plateau it seemed—and she had been only a second away from calling out for aid when she heard her mother's voice cut through the ambient din.

Her breath escaped her then, relieved—Phoebe quickly moved to be closer to the dark matron.