Whitebark Stream grab your mother's keys, we're leaving

she winces, groaning under her breath as she settles onto her haunches, not even half-done her patrol. irritation sparks, quickly drowned in a wave of nausea. the cut across her chest is scabbed over, and seems free of infection for now. it throbs, but it is the dull ache that spreads across the entirety of her chest that has her stop now. she heaves a sigh, curling in muzzle tightly toward her chest as she noses over the wound. 

her stomach rolls, the uncomfortable feeling of saliva building in her maw. she wills it away - she will not vomit on their borders. she'd thought the squirrel she'd unearthed early that morning had been fresh; it had borne no markers of carrion. apparently, she'd been wrong. one more moment of attempting to use willpower to quell her stomach; and then she rises and moves on.