The Heartwood starts soft and sweet and turns them to hunters

it is twilight. above, the sky is cast in shades of gunmetal, blowing snow obscuring the distant outlines of barren trees clawing at the heavens. silence settles thickly on the heartwood; aged, darkened remains of a once might woodland jutting through the snow. through this wasteland walks the girl. she moves without direction, threadbare and skeletal. ribs and hips press at thin skin and patchy pelt as if they are in danger of jutting out of her skin entirely.

she halts, swaying a moment. the girl dips her head, scent the earth at her paws. she does not know how long she has been lost, how long she has been hungry. at least she knows now what is real. she remembers vaguely the sickness, the woman, the way she'd chased her desperately. she'd promised something. she'd known something. she did not know if she had truly existed. 

she straightens, every limb protesting, and walks on.