Silverlight Terrace it has wealth and gold, but it's fragile and old

i hope you don't mind me! c:

the evening paints the terrace in a fiery glow; a glimpse skyward is given as atla notes the pale moon as it begins to crest the horizon, not yet in its full glory. she tightens her grip upon the plump groundhog betwixt her jaws, searching for a secluded place to eat that will, if she were lucky, double for a shelter for the night. though she spent much time exploring prior to leaving klakgeda she had underestimated how much work being a lone wolf would be. not having a home to return to each night was ...taxing.

still, she soldiers on with little choice but to.

her steps slow as her search for a temporary shelter begins in earnest, ears swiveling as a strange sound permeates the air. it is muffled ...but it sounds like cries. atla's ears flutter back against her skull as she abandons her current objective and allows her paws to carry her in the direction of the cries. following the sound, she does not sound the one crying but judges by the volume of the muffled cries that she is close.

atla stops and sets her catch down, sniffing at the air. hei, she chuffs softly. chit's skechi? she blinks owlishly at the encroaching shadows for a moment, considering only now that perhaps these wolves do not speak trigedasleng. something sinks in her chest then at the possibility of a language barrier. despite the similarities of the dialects atla has always struggled with common. ah ...what — what wrong? she asks the crying shadows, cringing at the lack of effortlessly fluency of her butchered and chopped sounding common.