Blackfoot Forest The simorgh sleeps on velvet tongues

Pied wondered if Hawkeye would eventually give up and leave if she didn't say anything else. Instead, the dark she-wolf queried after her, even mentioning the incident several weeks ago. The piebald yearling winced slightly as she recollected the events of that stormy evening. She was angry with Hawkeye for the part she had played in all of it, yet most of Pied's bitterness was directed at her own cousin, Koontz. It still made her seethe quietly when she remembered the Redleaf-DiSarinno's sharp, icy words of disownment.

"I've been fine," she answered in that same wooden tone, which she tried to smooth away so that she sounded offhand. "Things have been quiet here. I haven't seen much of anyone in weeks." Only now did Pied look up from her own white forepaws, her eyes briefly meeting Hawkeye's. "Thank-you for apologizing. I wish it had gone differently as well. Such is life." She rolled a mottled shoulder as if to shrug it off. If only it were truly that easy.

She pursed her lips and lapsed into a contemplative silence for several beats before she siad again, "Things have been quiet... too quiet. Do you think everyone's still here?" The Agwe'en remembered the turnout of the pack's first meeting some time back; there had been plenty of members then. Where were they all lately? The members of Bon Dye weren't particularly socially apt, perhaps, but they were still a wolf pack. The feelings of belonging and being part of something Pied had experienced upon joining were slowly leeching away, day by day.