Blackfeather Woods come home late

Her children's sickness had had her scents on the borderline fade, as she tended them carefully until their illness broke. She did not fear for them now; her daughters were strong, she knew, and sickness had no claim on their lives. Her wanderings were slow, methodic, and when she became aware of the prescence somewhere behind her, she stilled entirely and waited. When the shadow drew close, of the Woods and yet foreign, she offered a chuff into the stillness.