Lake Rodney ring of fire

The dying embers of sunlight spark off the lake, searingly bright. It has her pause before stepping forward, lowering muzzle and guard simultaneously as she moves to drink deeply at the empty shoreline. There is nothing here save the distant calls of shorebirds and frogs, late summer sounds that only begin to grow in volume. The wolf is out of place - the scent of ash and smoke is a prevalent musk on her coat, despite having fled the great fires and week hence. Earth and ash have become part of her mantle, burned away in some parts to reveal uneven, short-cropped fur and skin. Still, she is luckier than most; the primordial fear that has landed her here has left her in one piece, breathing yet.