Hushed Willows we'll make our homes on the water

tiredly, the matriarch twists to regard the woman that approaches, rising stiffly. she is a pretty thing, young, alternating patterns of smoke and charcoal and ivory. she dips her muzzle respectfully, gaze coming to settle on the yearling. this time, she does not move to sway whatever remains of her tail. "I am Dawn, of M-Whitebark Stream." gods, she must really be exhausted. it's a slip of the tongue she hasn't made for months, perhaps even a year. 

"I man attacked me [mash] he's done so before, to others, and he smelled of a pack. I think he came from the mountains." her warning, delivered first and foremost, in the very slim chance she forgot to do so, foggy as her thoughts are. "can you tell me what this place is called?" she queries after a beat, unaware how she lightly sways upon her paws.