Bearclaw Valley from the spiritual poisons we expel at night

even astara had noted the gradual filling of her belly. the changes to her appetite. the hours of sleep snatched fitfully, replaced with jaunts to a distant latrine at inconvenient hours.

always the one to avoid social interaction, astara preferred to hang near the boulder that jutted like a grim tooth at the claw's entrance. here she could inspect any wolf passing by, the image of santiago still freshly burned in her mind.

guarding both the entrance and a worn-down bone, astara chewed abstractly at the worried surface, ignoring the growing gloom that settled in her gut.