Bearclaw Valley sang et vin pour les rois

In the depths of Ursus's valley, it felt warm.

Be it the lack of a bitter gale to sweep down into their home or simply a true sign of spring beckoning upon their doorstep she did not know, but it felt like a fresh breath back into her life. Phoebe was adjusting for lack of better words; her time alone still had her cornered into feeling she very much needed to be on the fringes of the burgeoning pack. Her soft nature had been a focal point in being turned away, a certain lack of assertiveness that had made her hone her ability to survive.

And so she had, for quite a spell.

But here, it seemed unnecessary and yet she could not quite shake the feeling.

Even in the depths of the wood, she moved spectre-like through gaunt trees yet to harbor new life, where the earth was damp beneath her feet and slick with mud. Here, where the snow lingered in shade but not enough to smother spring sprigs that she uncovered gently. Useful things they were, would be, if the weather held and nature kind enough to let them flourish.

Her muzzle pushed the snow away from them at the base of an old oak that was far more prideful and towering than she. Perhaps she'd go for a hunt today, she thought, or perhaps she would seek out another and try to tentatively reach for more of a connection beyond a chance meeting with Merrick.

Perhaps, perhaps...

She hummed to herself, some nonchalant, creative ditty, and surveyed the plants.