Grouse Thicket A black fly in your chardonnay.

"Island?" Wraen raised her eyebrows, wondering, whether it was one of the islands from nearby coasts (she was sure she had met one gangly teenager, who claimed to live in a place called Undersea and which was connected to the mainland by a sand bridge) or an entirely new place altogether. Both options were possible, but as long as it was far away from the copse - she found she did not really care to find out exact coordinates.

"Different, how?" she asked, casting a glance around. She had done travelling in her time and still enjoyed to do it on occasional basis. All places she had visited and where wolves chose to dwell had things in common - waterways, trees and grasslands nearby. Basically it was not so much, where one preferred to live rather than whether that place provided all and enough necessary for a family to survive. One learned not to get too attached to locations as they got older.

"I have never lived on an island, of course, but does such home not have inherent danger in it? Isolation is good for defences, but what if food runs short?" she speculated and then it occurred - was this the reason, why the girl was here? Running from famine was a good reason as any to leave home.