Emberwood seeking empty whispers

Her mind was buzzing despite how tired her body felt—how old, how bitter—except Styx knew she was really in the prime of her life. She ought to have been back home raising children. Instead she cultivated that bitterness, and thoughts such as this only spoiled her further.

Blood and fluids still clung to her coat. The silver was wine-stained, but a quick visit to a few ponds along the way helped remedy most of this. She carried the scent of afterbirth despite all of her efforts to cleanse herself. Her lips tasted of sweet moss and herbs.

What she needed was a long rest. A warm meal. Some form of solace to take the grisly image of the woman and her babes from her mind. Fate had tied her to a different path, however. The red string tugged her from one bloodbath to the next. At least in this case the man appeared quite alive—and not alone either.

The wildling observed from some distance as another wolf emerged, and while she wasn't fully invested in listening, she thought she heard the rise of a voice between them. Stryx paused mid-stride and took a deep breath, contemplating whether she should intervene or not.