Moonspear the stones marked an old tongue and it was called eternity

three weeks, now. she is not fit but she is not weak, not anymore. she tires quickly, still, but she's filling out, muscle and fat where there had been once only skin and bone. her pelt remains patchy, grown in some places more than other, but the raw patches of skin are vanished. she had taken Hydra's instruction, rested, recovered. but such things grow dull despite her gladness at being back here, and the looming worry of not being enough gradually grows heavier until she feels crushed by it, and must do something. 

late morning finds her recently returned from a patrol, headed back toward the innermost territories. on a whim she pauses, considers. tilting her head back, she calls for companionship, a sparring partner, or a teacher.