Otter Creek I don't want to run

Referencing Diaspora's little thief, @Nirali. Suspicion only, as I assume their scent would be very faint.

The hunger had become a tolerated nuisance to the pale sylph. She glided down the mountains edges, a ghost slinking through the dismal ridges, knowing she would need to distance herself from the hollow that showed no promise of food. What was not tolerable was the hunger of her children—and at night, despite their growing age, the mother would stave off their cries of discomfort and pain by trying to distract them with stories, while during the day she had begun to take them with her to patrol and hunt.

It was hard to teach oncoming yearlings to hunt food when there was none to be found.

There was a certain gauntness to her cheekbones as the sun reflected from her frosted pelt. Bright eyes glittered as much as any jewel, but there was a new hardship within her gaze. She wove her way along the creek, and it was with a growing suspicion that she swore she could scent Diaspora’s thief along the dead grass.

Sharpened with her own thirst for revenge, her eyes fell upon a tawny male—his sight set upon the water as she slunk closer, quickly closing the distance between them. Diminutive in nature she might have been—she was also the mother to three hungry children, and she needed to know if this was one of the bastards who was stealing food from their bellies.

Never was there a force of nature more powerful than an angered mother.