Sun Mote Copse haters gonna hate

A cold wind gusted at her back, kicking up snowflakes, as Towhee made her rounds. She felt numb with cold, which fit: she felt rather dead on the inside as well. Although it was wonderful knowing Dorea and Sundance were okay, the hope she'd felt about Phox and Fig turning up too had burned brightly and guttered out since. Winter had sunk its teeth into the wilds and still there was no sign of them, nor the others still missing from both the copse and the grove.

The entire past six months began to take on a dreamlike quality in Towhee's mind. She desperately wished they'd never branched off and gone to live in the strath. It had all been doomed from the start and now her family was in the wind. She ached not only for her brother and her son but Raven et al as well. Towhee would've gladly put up with Quixote for the rest of her days rather than be where she stood now, bereft and broken, a shell of her former self.

She arrived at the southwestern stretch of borders with another breath of frigid wind and stopped at the sight of a sandy figure. Even from a distance, Towhee could see the marks on his hindquarters and the way his skin clung to his bones. She let out a breath. They were matched in their battle wounds; she still bore the scar on her thigh and her own pelt hung too tightly on her lean frame. Despite herself, Towhee felt a spark of relief.

"Pip? That really you?" Towhee said gruffly as she came closer. There was a small warmth spreading in her chest at the sight of him. "What happened? Where've you been?" she questioned, the bitter wind snatching the words from her lips and carrying them away so they were barely audible.