Hushed Willows we'll make our homes on the water

takes place shortly after this

tiredness dogs her steps, and exhaustion pulls at her limbs. the matriarch wants nothing more than to return to the creek, but is unwilling to cut directly back toward her home. the possibility of being tracked back to all that she holds dear has her cut a wide path back to the stream, pausing not even to attend her stinging wounds. 

evening falls all around, sunlight giving way to stretching shadows. she does not expect the border, sudden as it is, and is given pause a moment. wariness prickles, disliking being at the borders of a strange pack. foliage shifts, as does recognition. the willows. had whatever remained of the once-elysium returned to this place? she considers, before tilting back her muzzle and giving a call to the denizens of this place, a tired call for an audience. tongue presses against the inside of her cheek, testing carefully the sting of the wounds on the opposite side. remaining stub of a tail twitches, and she winces, longing for Artyom's familiar touch when the whole of her seems to hurt. the left side of her face remains bloodied, something she can hardly address now, but the mess that is her shoulder remains within reach. one eye on the treeline, she begins a careful cleaning of the wound.