Sawtooth Spire I was drunk, said I was sober, and you said yeah right

Her jaw tightened around the still-warm carcass as Quell heeded the summons. She walked expressionlessly toward the familiar den site, pale eyes sharply focused on the path ahead. When she arrived, she paused to survey the small gathering of wolves, lavender gaze eventually fixing on Wylla's silhouette in the cave's mouth. She gently set the dead rabbit at her own feet.

Those few who knew her might expect some sort of goofy greeting, yet none come. Q continued to gaze coolly ahead, her face blank. She had no idea she'd had a seizure some days past (the first of April, ironically) and woken up afterward physically intact but inexorably altered in other ways. It was like she'd been lobotomized. For her part, she sensed something slightly amiss but it was like a low-grade fever: not very concerning and ultimately ignored.

She could still hunt, clearly, and go about her daily routines. Q's life remained more or less normal, simply sans any sign of her personality or really any personality. The lights were on but nobody was home. She didn't so much as smile as her eyes meandered, even if they happened upon one of the two pups. She still knew Wylla and Mahler, though she merely nodded her head in almost businesslike acknowledgement and folded to her haunches, attentive but also remote.